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THE  TITLE 


h  V     ARNOLD     P.  K  X  X  K  T  T 


NOVKLS 

THK  ROLL-CALL 

THK  PRETTY  L/\DY 

THK  lion's  share 

THESE  TWAIN 

CLAYHAN'GER 

HILDA  LESS  WAYS 

THE  OLD  WIVXS'  TALE 

DENRY  THE  AUDACIOUS 

THE  OLD  ADAM 

HELEN  WITH  THE  HIGH  HAND 

THE  MATADOR  OF  THE  FIVE  TOWNS 

THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTXA 

BURIED  ALIVE 

A  GREAT  MAN 

LEONORA 

WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

A  MAN  FROM  THE  NORTH 

ANNA  OF  THE  TI\T,  TOWNS 

THE  GLIMPSE 

THE  ITY  OF  PLEASURE 

THE  GRAND  BABYLON  HOTEL 

HUGO 

THE  GATES  OF  WRATH 

POCKET  PHILOSOPHIES 

THE  author's  CRAFT 
MARRIED  LIFE 
friendship  ANT)  HAPPINESS 
HOW  TO  LIVE  ON  24  HOURS  A  DAY 
THE  HUMAN  MACHINE 
LITERARY  TASTE 
MENTAL  EFFICIENCY 
PLAYS 

THE  TITLE 

THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

CUPID  AND  COMMONSENSE 

WHAT  THE  PUBLIC  WANTS 

POLITE  FARCES 

THE  HONEYMOON 

IN  COLLABORATION  WITH  EDWARD  KNOBLAUCH 
MILESTONES 

MISCELLANEOUS 
paris  nights 

the  truth  about  an  author 
liberty! 
OVER  tiierf.:  war  scenes 


GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


THE  TITLE 

A  COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS 

BY 
ARNOLD  BENNETT 


NEW  XfS^  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copi/right,  1918, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CHARACTERS  IN  THE  PLAY 


} 


Mr.  Culver 
Mrs.  Culver 

HiLDEGARDE    CuLVER     .     .,     .         ,  .,  , 

}  their  children. 
John  Culver 

Tranto 

Miss  Starkey 

Sampson  Straight 

Parlourmaid 


ACT    I 

An  evening  between  Christmas  and  New  Year,  before 

dinner. 

ACT    II 

The  next  evening,  after  dinner, 

ACT    HI 

The  next  day,  before  lunch. 

The  scene  throughout  is  a  sitting-room  in  the  well- 
furnished  West  End  abode  of  the  Culvers.  There  is 
a  door  back.  There  is  also  another  door  l,  leading 
to  Mrs.  Culver's  boudoir  and  elsewhere. 


5705S2 

IHEATRIC     Aumc 


NOTES  ON  THE  CHARACTERS  AND  THE 
INTERPRETATION 

This  comedy  has  to  be  played  lightly  through- 
out, in  the  comic  spirit.  All  the  characters,  at 
all  moments,  must  indicate  this  spirit. 

Arthur  Culver.  Aged  about  44!.  Slim.  Lively. 
Well  dressed,  with  a  certain  very  slight,  elegant 
negligence.  It  is  to  be  remembered  that  a  man 
of  44<  in  these  days  is  young.  Arthur  Culver's 
general  style  must  be  decidedly  young,  but  his  hair 
may  show  that  he  has  a  daughter  of  22.  In  spite 
of  his  abounding  humour,  when  it  comes  to  the 
point  he  can  be  very  firm  indeed.  As  a  rule  great 
freedom  characterises  the  relations  between  him 
and  his  children.  He  is  a  very  successful  man  of 
business,  and  a  considerable  person  in  the  official 
world.  Always  in  love,  and  politely  quarrelling, 
with  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Culver.  Aged  about  42.  I  want  this 
woman  to  be  slim.  It  is  essential  that  she  should 
wear  really  good  frocks  and  wear  them  properly. 
Her  face  may,  and  should,  show  her  age,  but  her 
figure  and  deportment  (though  the  latter  is  dig- 
nified) must  not.  She  is  a  bit  of  a  flirt.  She 
is  delightful,  and  she  likes  to  be  admired.     She 

vii 


viii      NOTES  ON  THE  CHARACTERS 

likes  to  charm.  She  is  always  fully  conscious  of 
the  privileges  and  advantages  of  being  a  woman. 
With  all  this,  she  lives  for  her  husband  and  fam- 
ily. Yet  she  is  usually  determined  to  get  her 
own  way,  and  nearly  always,  with  the  help  of  her 
cleverness  and  attractiveness  and  unscrupulous- 
ness,  she  does  get  it.  She  is  somewhat  conven- 
tional, but  at  the  same  time  fairly  tolerant.  A 
powerful  individuality,  intensely  alive.  Always 
in  love  with  her  husband  and  pitting  herself 
against  him. 

HiLDEGABDE  CuLVER.  About  22.  Her  intelli- 
gence outruns  her  experience.  Thus  she  writes 
brilliant  articles  and  yet  is  often  like  a  quite 
young  girl  in  front  of  her  mother.  When  she  is 
at  ease  in  conversation  she  can  hold  her  own  with 
any  one.  When  she  is  not  at  ease,  she  betrays 
her  inexperience  and  her  ingenuousness.  She  is 
a  modern  girl  who  has  been  highly  educated  and 
very  carefully  brought  up.  She  is  intimidated  by 
her  mother  in  Acts  I  and  II,  but  in  Act  III  she 
practises  for  a  time  some  of  her  mother's  art. 
She  has  the  charm  of  youth,  without  in  the  least 
pretending  to  rival  her  mother's  highly  accom- 
plished femininity.  She  is  not  particularly  in- 
terested in  dress,  but  not  untidy. 

John  Culver.  Aged  17.  Physically  well  ad- 
vanced for  his  years.  Faint  trace  of  a  mous- 
tache. A  really  important  personage  at  school, 
he  tries  to  play  the  adult  at  home,  and  only  just 


NOTES  ON  THE  CHARACTERS        ix 

fails.  Inclinations  toward  dandyism.  Of  course 
his   movements   are  a  little  brusque   and   clumsy. 

Tranto.  Aged  about  25.  Accustomed  to 
great  wealth.  The  lightest  of  all  the  characters. 
An  imperturbable  liar  when  it  suits  him  to  be  so, 
and  indeed  imperturbable  at  all  moments  except 
once  in  the  third  act,  with  a  rather  distinguished 
brain  and  a  very  kindly  disposition.  Airy;  full 
of  fantasy,  and  with  a  humorous  quality  second 
only  to  that  of  Mr.  Culver. 

Miss  Starkey.  Aged  about  30.  An  austere, 
capable  virgin.  Absorbed  in  her  career  of  sec- 
retary. 

Sampson  Straight.  Aged  over  30.  Stoutish, 
with  the  smooth,  reddish,  brazen  face  of  an  ad- 
venturer; deliberate  movements  and  a  very  quiet 
voice.  In  appearance  he  resembles  a  refined 
bookraaker.  Rather  too  careful  and  prim  in  his 
good  manners.  No  sense  of  humour.  Takes 
everything  au  pied  de  la  lettre. 

Parlourmaid.  Aged  about  45.  Consciously 
alert  and  bright.  Biggish.  Wears  grey  instead 
of  black.  It  is  to  be  remembered  that  almost  all 
the  conventional  parlourmaids  have  taken  to 
other  walks  of  life  under  the  temptations  of  war. 


THE    TITLE 


ACT  I 

HUdegarde  is  sittmg  at  a  desk,  writing.  Johriy 
in  a  lounging  attitude,  is  reading  a  news- 
paper. 

Enter  Tranto,  back 

Tranto.     Good  evening. 

HUdegarde  [turning  slightly  in  her  seat  and 
giving  him  her  left  hand,  the  right  still  holding 
a  pen^.  Good  evening.  Excuse  me  one  mo- 
ment. 

Tranto.  All  right  about  my  dining  here  to- 
night.'' [HUdegarde  nods.']  Larder  equal  to  the 
strain .'' 

HUdegarde.     Macaroni. 

Tranto.     Splendid. 

HUdegarde.     Beefsteak. 

Tranto.  Great  heavens!  [Imitates  sketchUy 
the  motions  of  cutting  up  a  piece  of  steak.  Shak- 
ing hands  with  John,  who  has  risen.]  Well,  John. 
How  are  things?  Don't  let  me  disturb  you. 
Have  a  cigarette.'* 

II 


12  THE  TITLE 

John  [flattercdi.  Thanks.  [As  tluy  light 
cigarettes.^  You're  the  first  person  here  that's 
treated  me  like  a  human  being. 

Tranto.     Oh ! 

John.  Yes.  They  all  treat  me  as  if  I  was  a 
schoolboy  home  for  the  hols. 

Tranto.     But  you  are,  aren't  you? 

John.  In  a  way,  of  course.  But — well,  don't 
you  see  what  I  mean? 

Tranto  [sympatheticaUy~\.  You  mean  that  a 
schoolboy  home  for  the  hols  isn't  necessarily 
something  escaped  out  of  the  Zoo. 

John  ['icarming'\.    That's  it. 

Tranto.  In  fact,  what  you  mean  is  you're 
really  an  individual  very  like  the  rest  of  us,  sub- 
ject, if  I  may  say  so,  to  the  common  desires, 
weaknesses  and  prejudices  of  humanity — and  not 
a  damned  freak. 

John  [hrightly].  That's  rather  good,  that  is. 
If  it's  a  question  of  the  Zoo,  what  I  say  is — what 
price  home?  Now,  homes  are  extraordinary  if 
you  like — I  don't  know  whether  you've  ever  no- 
ticed it.  School, — you  can  understand  school. 
You  know  where  you  are  at  school.  But  home — ! 
Strange  things  happen  here  while  I'm  away. 

Tranto.     Yes? 

John.  It  was  while  I  was  away  they  appointed 
Dad  a  controller.  When  I  heard — I  laughed. 
Dad  a  controller!  Why,  he  can't  even  control 
mother. 


ACT  I  13 

HUdegarde  [tcithout  looking  round'].  Oh,  yes 
he  can. 

John  [pretending  to  start  hack'].  Stay  me 
with  flagons !  [Resuming  to  Tranto.]  And  youWe 
something  new  here  since  the  summer  holidays. 

Tranto.  I  never  looked  at  myself  in  that 
light.     But  I  suppose  I  am  rather  new  here. 

John.  Not  quite  new.  But  you've  made  a  lot 
of  progress  during  the  last  term. 

Tranto.     That's  comforting. 

John.  You  understand  what  I  mean.  You 
were  rather  stiff  and  prim  in  August — now  you 
aren't  a  bit. 

Tranto.  Just  so.  Well,  I  won't  ask  you  what 
you  think  of  me,  John, — you  might  tell  me — but 
what  do  you  think  of  my  newspaper.'' 

John.  The  Echo?  I  don't  know  what  to 
think.  You  see,  we  don't  read  newspapers  much 
at  school.  Some  of  the  masters  do.  And  a  few 
chaps  in  the  Fifth — swank,  of  course.  But 
speaking  generally  we  don't.  Prefects  don't.  No 
time. 

Tranto.  How  strange!  Aren't  you  interested 
in  the  war.'' 

John.  Interested  in  the  war!  Would  you 
mind  if  I  spoke  plainly.'' 

Tranto.     I  should  love  it. 

John.  Each  time  I  come  home  I  wonder  more 
and  more  whether  you  people  in  London  have  got 
the  slightest  notion  what  war  really  is.     Fact! 


14  THE  TITLE 

At  school,  it's  just  because  we  are  interested  in 
the  war  that  we've  no  time  for  newspapers. 

Tranto.     How's  that? 

John.  How's  that?  Well,  munition  work- 
shops— with  government  inspectors  tumbling  all 
over  us  about  once  a  week.  O.T.C.  work.  Field 
days.  Cramming  fellows  for  Sandhurst.  Not  to 
mention  female  masters.  "Mistresses,"  I  ought 
to  say  perhaps.     All  these  things  take  time. 

Tranto.     I  never  thought  of  that. 

John.  No.  People  don't.  However,  I've  de- 
cided to  read  newspapers  in  future — it'll  be  part 
of  my  scheme.  That's  why  I  was  reading  The 
Echo.  Now  I  should  like  to  ask  you  something 
about  this  paper  of  yours. 

Tranto.     Yes? 

John.  Why  do  you  let  Hilda  write  those  ar- 
ticles for  you  about  food  economy  stunts  in  the 
household? 

Tranto.     Well  [^hesitating^. 

John.  Now  I  look  at  things  practically. 
When  Hilda'd  spent  all  her  dress  allowance  and 
got  into  debt  besides,  about  a  year  and  a  half 
ago,  she  suddenly  remembered  she  wasn't  doing 
much  to  help  the  war,  and  so  she  went  into  the 
Food  Ministry  as  a  typist  at  35/-  a  week.  Next 
she  learnt  typing.  Then  she  became  an  author- 
ity on  everything.  And  now  she's  concocting 
these  food  articles  for  you.  Believe  me,  the  girl 
knows    nothing    whatever    about     cookery.      She 


ACT  I  15 

couldn't  fry  a  sausage  for  nuts.  Once  the  mater 
insisted  on  her  doing  the  housekeeping — in  the 
hohdays,  too  !     Stay  me  with  flagons  ! 

Hildegarde  [witlwut  lookmg  round~\.  Stay 
you  with  chocolates,  you  mean,  Johnnie,  dear. 

John.  There  you  are!  Her  thoughts  fly  in- 
stantly to  chocolates — and  in  the  fourth  year  of 
the  greatest  war  that  the  world 

Hildegarde.     Et  cetera,  et  cetera. 

Tranto.  Then  do  I  gather  that  you  don't  en- 
tirely approve  of  your  sister's  articles? 

John.  Tripe,.  I  think.  My  fag  could  write 
better.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  do  approve  of.  I 
approve  of  that  article  to-day  by  that  chap 
Sampson  Straight  about  titles  and  the  shameful 
traffic  in  honours  and  the  rot  of  the  hereditary 
principle  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Tranto.  I'm  glad.  Delivers  the  goods, 
doesn't  he,  Mr.  Sampson  Straight? 

John.     Well,  /  think  so.     Who  is  he? 

Tranto.  One  of  my  discoveries,  John.  He 
sent  me  in  an  article  about — let  me  see,  when  was 
it? — about  eight  months  ago.  I  at  once  per- 
ceived that  in  Mr.  Sampson  Straight  I  had  got 
on  to  a  bit  of  all  right.  And  I  was  not  mistaken. 
He  has  given  London  beans  pretty  nearly  regu- 
larly once  a  week  ever  since. 

John.  He  must  have  given  the  War  Cabi- 
net neuralgia  this  afternoon,  anyhow.  I  should 
like  to  meet  him. 


16  THE  TITLE 

Tranto.     I'm  afraid  that's  impossible? 

John.     Is  it?    Why? 

Tranto.  Well,  I  haven't  met  him  myself  yet. 
He  lives  at  a  quiet  country  place  in  Cornwall. 
Hermit,  I  believe.  Hates  any  kind  of  publicity. 
Absolutely  refuses  to  be  photographed. 

John.  Photographed !  I  should  think  not ! 
But  couldn't  you  get  him  to  come  and  lecture  at 
school?     We  have  frightful  swells,  you  know. 

Tranto.  I  expect  you  do.  But  he  wouldn't 
come. 

John.  I  wish  he  would.  We  had  a  debate  the 
other  Saturday  night  on — Should  the  hereditary 
principle  be  abolished? 

Tranto.     And  did  you  abolish  it? 

John.  Did  we  abolish  it?  I  should  say  we 
did.  Eighty-five  to  twenty-one.  Some  debate, 
believe  me! 

HUdegarde  [looking  round^.  Yes,  but  didn't 
you  tell  us  once  that  in  your  Debating  Society 
the  speakers  always  tossed  for  sides  beforehand? 

John  [shrugging  his  shoulders.  More  con- 
fidentiaXli/  to  Tranto^.  As  I  was  saying,  I'm 
going  to  read  the  papers  in  future,  as  part  of  my 
scheme.  And  d'you  know  what  the  scheme  is? 
[Impressively.^  I've  decided  to  take  up  a  politi- 
cal career. 

Tranto.     Good ! 

John.  Yes,  it  was  during  that  hereditary 
principle  debate  that  I  decided.     It  came  over  me 


ACT  I  17 

all  of  a  sudden  while  I  was  on  the  last  lap  of  my 
speech  and  the  fellows  were  cheering.  And  so  I 
want  to  understand  first  of  all  the  newspaper 
situation  in  London.  There  are  one  or  two  things 
about  it  I  don't  understand, 

Tranto.  Not  more?  I  can  explain  the  news- 
paper situation  to  you  in  ten  words.  You  know 
I've  got  a  lot  of  uncles.  I  daresay  I've  got  more 
uncles  than  anybody  else  in  "Who's  Who."  Well, 
I  own  The  Echo, — inherited  it  from  my  father. 
My  uncles  own  all  the  rest  of  the  press — lairilT/^ 
with  a  few  trifling  exceptions.  That's  the  Lon- 
don newspaper  situation.     Quite  simple,  isn't  it.^" 

John.  But  of  course  The  Echo  is  up  against 
all  your  uncles'  papers — at  least  it  seems  so. 

Tranto.  Absolutely  up  against  them.  Tooth 
and  nail.  Daggers  drawn.  No  quarter.  Death 
or  victory. 

John.  But  do  you  and  your  uncles  speak  to 
each  other? 

Tranto.     Best  of  friends. 

John.     But  aren't  two  of  your  uncles  lords? 

Tranto.  Yes.  Uncle  Joe  was  made  an  earl 
not  long  since — you  may  have  heard  of  the  fuss 
about  it.  Uncle  Sam's  only  a  miserable  baron 
yet.  And  Uncle  Cuthbert  is  that  paltry  insect — 
a  baronet. 

John.     What  did  they  get  their  titles  for,? 

Tranto.     Ask  me  another. 

John.     Of  course  I  don't  want  to  be  personal, 


18  THE  TITLE 

but  how  did  they  get  them?  Did  they — er — buy 
them  ? 

Tranto.     Don't  know. 

John.     Haven't  you  ever  asked  them? 

Tranto.  Well,  John,  you've  got  relatives  your- 
self, and  you  probably  know  there  are  some  things 
that  even  the  most  affectionate  relatives  don't  ask 
each  other. 

Hildegarde  {^risi/ng  from  the  desk  and  looking 
at  Johns  feet^.  Yes,  indeed!  This  very  morn- 
ing I  unwisely  asked  Johnnie  whether  his  socks 
ever  talked.  Altercation  followed.  "Some  de- 
bate, believe  me!" 

John  [rising;  with  scornful  tranqiLillity^.  I'd 
better  get  ready  for  dinner.  Besides,  you  two 
would  doubtless  like  to  be  alone  together  for  a 
few  precious  moments. 

Hildegarde  [sharply  and  self-consciously'\. 
What  do  you  mean? 

John  [lightly'].  Nothing.  I  thought  editor 
and  contributor 

Hildegarde.     Oh !     I  see. 

John  [stopping  at  door,  and  turning  round"]. 
Do  you  mean  to  say  your  uncles  won't  be  fright- 
fully angry  at  Mr.  Sampson  Straight's  articles? 
Why,  dash  it,  when  he's  talking  about  traffic  in 
honours,  if  he  doesn't  mean  them  who  does  he 
mean  ? 

Tranto.     My    dear    friend,    stuff    like    that's 


ACT  I  19 

meat  and  drink  to  ray  uncles.  They  put  it  down 
like  chocolates. 

John.  Well,  my  deliberate  opinion  is — it's  a 
jolly  strange  world.  \^Exit  qmcTily,  hach.^ 

Tranto  [looking  at  Hildegarde~\.  So  it  is. 
Philosopher,  John!  Questions  rather  pointed 
perhaps ;  but  results  in  the  discovery  of  new 
truths.     By  the  way,  have  I  come  too  early? 

Hildegarde  [archly].  How  could  you?  But 
father's  controlling  the  country  half  an  hour 
more  than  usual  this  evening,  and  I  expect 
mamma  was  so  angry  about  it  she  forgot  to  tele- 
phone you  that  dinner's  moved  accordingly. 
[With  piquancy  and  humour.]  I  was  rather 
surprised  to  hear  when  I  got  home  from  my  Min- 
istry that  you'd  sent  word  you'd  like  to  dine  to- 
night. 

Tranto.     Were  you?    Why? 

Hildegarde.  Because  last  week  when  mamma 
asked  you  for  to-night,  you  said  you  had  another 
engagement. 

Tranto.  Oh !  I'd  forgotten  I'd  told  her  that. 
Still,  I  really  had  another  engagement. 

Hildegarde.  The  Countess  of  Blackfriars — 
you  said. 

Tranto.  Yes.  Auntie  Joe's.  I've  just  sent 
her  a  telephone  message  to  say  I'm  ill  and  con- 
fined to  the  house. 

Hildegarde.     Which  house? 

Tranto.     I  didn't  specify  any  particular  house. 


20  THE  TITLE 

IlUdcgarde.     And  are  you  ill? 

Tranto.  I  am  not  .  .  .  To  get  back  to  the 
realm  of  fact,  when  I  read  Sampson  Straight's  ar- 
ticle about  the  degradation  of  honours  this  after- 
noon  

Hildegarde.  Didn't  you  read  it  before  you 
published  it? 

Tranto.  No.  I  had  to  rush  off  and  confront 
the  Medical  Board  at  9  a.  m.  I  felt  certain  the 
article  would  be  all  right. 

Hildegarde.     And  it  wasn't  all  right. 

Tranto  [positivcli/].     Perfectly  all  right. 

Hildegarde.  You  don't  seem  quite  sure.  Are 
we  still  in  the  realm  of  fact,  or  are  we  slipping 
over  the  frontier? 

Tranto.  The  article  was  perfectly  all  right. 
It  rattled  off  from  beginning  to  end  like  a  ma- 
chine-gun, and  must  have  caused  enormous  casual- 
ties. Only  I  thought  Auntie  Joe  might  be  one  of 
the  casualties.  I  thought  it  might  put  her  out 
of  action  as  a  hostess  for  a  week  or  so.  You 
see,  for  me  to  publish  such  an  onslaught  on  new 
titles  in  the  afternoon,  and  then  attempt  to  dine 
with  the  latest  countess  the  same  night — and  she 
my  own  aunt — well  it  might  be  regarded  as  a  bit — 
thick.  So  I'm  confined  to  the  house — this  house 
as  it  happens. 

Hildegarde.  But  you  told  John  your  people 
would  take  the  article  like  meat  and  drink. 

Tranto.     What  if  I  did?    John  can't  expect  to 


ACT  I  .  21 

discover  the  whole  truth  about  everything  at  one 
go.  He's  found  out  it's  a  jolly  strange  world. 
That  ought  to  satisfy  him  for  to-day.  Besides, 
he  only  asked  me  about  my  uncles.  He  said  noth- 
ing about  my  uncles'  wives.  You  know  what 
women  are — I  mean  wives. 

Hildegarde.     Oh,  I  do !    Mother  is  a  marvellous 
specimen. 

Tranto.     I  haven't  told  you  the  worst. 

Hildegarde.     I  hope  no  man  ever  will. 

Tranto.  The  worst  is  this.  Auntie  Joe  ac- 
tually thinks  Vm  Sampson  Straight. 

Hildegarde.     She  doesn't ! 

Tranto.  She  does.  She  has  an  infinite  capac- 
ity for  belief.  The  psychology  of  the  thing  is 
as  follows.  My  governor  died  a  comparatively 
poor  man.  A  couple  of  hundred  thousand  pounds, 
more  or  less.  Whereas  Uncle  Joe  is  worth  five 
millions, — and  Uncle  Joe  was  going  to  adopt  me, 
when  Auntie  Joe  butted  in  and  married  him.  She 
used  to  arrange  the  flowers  for  his  first  wife.  Then 
she  arranged  his  flowers.  Then  she  became  a 
flower  herself  and  he  had  to  gather  her.  Then  she 
had  twins,  and  my  chances  of  inheriting  that  five 
millions — \^He  imitates  the  noise  of  a  slight  ex- 
plosion.^— short-circuited!  Well,  I  didn't  care  a 
volt — not  a  volt !  I've  got  lots  of  uncles  left  who 
are  quite  capable  of  adopting  me.  But  I  didn't 
really  want  to  be  adopted  at  all.  To  adopt  me 
was  only  part  of  Uncle  Joe's  political  game.     It 


22  THE  TITLE 

was  my  Echo  that  he  was  after  adopting.  But 
I'd  sooner  run  my  Echo  on  my  own  than  inherit 
Uncle  Joe's  controlling  share  in  twenty-five  daily 
papers,  seventy-one  weekly  papers,  six  monthly 
magazines,  and  three  independent  advertising 
agencies.  I  know  I'm  a  poor  man,  but  I'm 
quite  ready  to  go  on  facing  the  world  bravely 
with  my  modest  capital  of  a  couple  of  hundred 
thousand  pounds.  Only  Auntie  Joe  can't  under- 
stand that.  She's  absolutely  convinced  that  I 
have  a  terrific  grudge  against  her  and  her  twins, 
and  that  in  order  to  gratify  that  grudge  I  myself 
personally  write  articles  against  all  her  most 
sacred  ideals  under  the  pseudonym  of  Sampson 
Straight.  I've  pointed  out  to  her  that  I'm  a  news- 
paper proprietor  and  no  newspaper  proprietor 
ever  could  write.    No  use  !    She  won't  hsten. 

Hildcgarde.     Then  she  thinks  you're  a  liar. 

Tranto.  Oh,  not  at  all.  Only  a  journalist. 
But  you  perceive  the  widening  rift  in  the  family 
lute.  [A  sUence-l  Pardon  this  glimpse  into  the 
secret  history  of  the  week. 

HUdegarde  [formidably'].  Mr.  Tranto,  you 
and  I  are  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  volcano. 

Tranto.  We  are.  I  like  it.  Thrilling,  and  yet 
so  warm  and  cosy. 

HUdegarde.  I  used  to  like  it  once.  But  I 
don't  think  I  like  it  any  more. 

Tranto.  Now  please  don't  let  Auntie  Joe 
worry  you.     She's  my  cross,  not  yours. 


ACT  I  23 

Hildegarde.  Yes.  But  considered  as  a  cross, 
your  Auntie  Joe  is  nothing  to  my  brother  John, 
who  quite  justly  calls  his  sister's  cookery  stuff 
"tripe."  It  was  a  most  ingenious  camouflage  of 
yours  to  have  me  pretending  to  be  the  author  of 
that  food  economy  "tripe,"  so  as  to  cover  my 
writing  quite  diff*erent  articles  for  The  Echo  and 
your  coming  here  to  see  me  so  often.  Most  in- 
genious. Worthy  of  a  newspaper  proprietor. 
But  why  should  I  be  saddled  with  "tripe"  that 
isn't  mine ,'' 

Tranto.  Why,  indeed!  Then  you  think  we 
ought  to  encourage  the  volcano  with  a  lighted 
match — and  run? 

Hildegarde.     I'm  ready  if  you  are. 

Tranto.  Oh !  I'm  ready.  Secrecy  was  a  great 
stunt  at  first.  Letting  out  the  secret  will  be  an 
even  greater  stunt  now.  It'll  make  the  finest  news- 
paper story  since  the  fearful  fall  of  the  last  Cabi- 
net. Sampson  Straight — equals  Miss  Hildegarde 
Culver,  the  twenty-one-year-old  daughter  of  the 
Controller  of  Accounts !  Typist  in  the  Food  De- 
partment, by  day  !  Journalistic  genius  by  night ! 
The  terror  of  Ministers!  Read  by  all  London! 
Raised  the  circulation  of  The  Echo  two  hundred 
per  cent!  Phenomenon  unique  in  the  annals  of 
Fleet  Street !  [In  a  different  tone,  noticmg  HUde- 
garde's  face.']  Crude  headlines,  I  admit,  but  that's 
what  Uncle  Joe  has  brought  us  to.  We  have  to 
compete  with  Uncle  Joe.  .   .   . 


24  THE  TITLE 

Hildegarde.  Of  course  I  shall  have  to  leave 
home. 

Tranto.     Leave  home ! 

Hild^gardc.     Yes,  and  live  by  myself  in  rooms. 

Tranto.     But  why? 

HUdcgarde.  I  couldn't  possibly  stay  here. 
Think  how  it  would  compromise  father  with  the 
War  Cabinet  if  I  did.  It  might  ruin  him.  And 
as  accounts  are  everything  in  modem  warfare,  it 
might  lose  the  war.  But  that's  nothing — it's 
mamma  I'm  thinking  of.  Do  you  forget  that 
Sampson  Straight,  being  a  young  woman  of  ad- 
vanced ideas,  has  written  about  everything,  every- 
thing,— yes,  and  several  other  subjects  besides? 
For  instance,  here's  the  article  I  was  revising  when 
you  came  in.     [^Shows  the  title  page  to  Tranto.^ 

Tranto.  Splendid  !  You're  the  most  courage- 
ous creature  I  ever  met. 

HUdcgarde.  Possibly.  But  not  courageous 
enough  to  offer  to  kiss  mamma  when  I  went  to  bed 
on  the  night  that  that  [^indicating  the  article^  had 
appeared  in  print  under  my  own  name.  You  don't 
know  mamma. 

Tranto.  But  dash  it!  You  could  eat  your 
mother! 

HUdcgarde. — Pardon  me.  The  contrary  is  the 
fact.     Mamma  could  eat  me. 

Tranto.  But  you're  the  illustrious  Sampson 
Straight.     There's  more  intelligence  in  your  little 


ACT  I  25 

finger  than  there  is  in  your  mother's  whole  body. 
See  how  you  write. 

HUdegarde.  Write!  I  only  began  to  write  as 
a  relief  from  mamma.  I  escaped  secretly  into  ar- 
ticles like  escaping  into  an  underground  passage. 
But  as  for  facing  mamma  in  the  open !  .  .  .  Even 
father  scarcely  ever  does  that;  and  when  he  does 
we  hold  our  breath  and  the  cook  turns  teetotal. 
It  wouldn't  be  the  slightest  use  me  trying  to  ex- 
plain the  situation  logically  to  mamma.  She 
wouldn't  imderstand.  She's  far  too  clever  to 
understand  anything  she  doesn't  like.  Perhaps 
that's  the  secret  of  her  power.  No,  if  the  truth 
about  Sampson  Straight  is  to  come  out  I  must 
leave  home, — quietly  but  firmly  leave  home.  And 
why  not.'*  I  can  keep  myself  in  splendour  on 
Sampson's  earnings.  And  the  break  is  bound  to 
come  sooner  or  later.  I  admit  I  didn't  begin  very 
seriously,  but  reading  my  own  articles  has  gradu- 
ally made  me  serious.  I  feel  I  have  a  cause.  A 
cause  may  be  inconvenient,  but  it's  magnificent. 
It's  like  champagne  or  high  heels,  and  one  must 
be  prepared  to  suffer  it. 

Tranto.  Cause  be  hanged  !  Suffer  be  hanged ! 
High  heels  be  hanged!  Champagne — [^stops^. 
Miss  Culver,  if  a  disclosure  means  your  leaving 
home  I  won't  agree  to  any  disclosure  whatever.  I 
will — not — agree.     We'll  sit  tight  on  the  volcano. 

HUdegarde.     But  why  won't  you  agree  .f* 

Tranto  [excited^.     Why  won't  I  agree!    Why 


26  THE  TITLE 

won't  I  agree!  Because  I  don't  want  you  to  leave 
home.  I  know  you're  a  born  genius,  a  marvel,  a 
miracle,  a  prodigy,  an  incredible  orchid,  the  most 
brilliant  journalist  in  London.  I'm  fully  aware  of 
all  that.  But  I  do  not  and  will  not  see  you  as  a 
literary  bachelor  living  with  a  cause  and  holding 
receptions  of  serious  people  in  chambers  furnished 
by  Roger  Fry.  I  like  to  think  of  you  at  home, 
here,  in  this  charming  atmosphere,  amid  the  de- 
liglitful  vicissitudes  of  family  existence,  and — well, 
I  like  to  think  of  you  as  a  woman. 

Hildegarde  [calmlj/  and  teasingly.']  Mr.  Tran- 
to,  we  are  forgetting  one  thing. 

Tranto.     What's  that.? 

Hildegarde.  You're  an  editor  and  I'm  a  con- 
tributor whom  you've  never  met. 

Enter  Mrs.  Culver^  L 

Mrs.  Cidver.  Mr.  Tranto,  how  are  you.'' 
[ShnJcmg  hands. ^  I'm  delighted  to  see  you.  So 
sorry  I  didn't  warn  you  we  dine  half  an  hour  later 
— thanks  to  the  scandalous  way  the  Government 
slave-drives  my  poor  husband.  Please  do  excuse 
me.     [She  sits.] 

Tranto.  On  the  contrary,  it's  I  who  should 
ask  to  be  excused, — proposing  myself  like  this  at 
the  last  moment. 

Mrs.  Cidver.  It  was  very  nice  of  you  to  think 
of  us.     Come  and  sit  down  here.      [Indicating  a 


ACT  I  27 

place  hy  her  side  on  the  sofa.]  Now  in  my  poor 
addled  brain  I  had  an  idea  you  were  engaged  for 
to-night  at  your  aunt's,  Lady  Blackfriars. 

Tranto  Isittmgl.  Mrs.  Culver,  you  forget 
nothing.  I  was  engaged  for  Auntie  Joe's,  but 
she's  ill  and  she's  put  me  off. 

Mrs.  Culver.     Dear  me !    How  very  sudden ! 

Tranto.     Sudden  ? 

Mrs.  Cvlver.  I  met  Lady  Blackfriars  at  tea 
late  this  afternoon  and  it  struck  me  how  well  she 
was  looking. 

Tranto.  Yes,  she  always  looks  particularly 
well  just  before  she's  going  to  be  ill.  She's  very 
brave,  very  brave. 

Mrs.  Culver.  D'you  mean  in  having  twins?  It 
was  more  than  brave  of  her ;  it  was  beautiful — both 
boys,  too. 

HUdegarde  \vrmocently].  Budgetting  for  a 
long  war. 

Mrs.  Culver  [affectionatelyl.  My  dear  girl! 
Come  here.  Darling,  you  haven't  changed.  Ex- 
cuse me,  Mr.  Tranto. 

HUdegarde  [approaching'].  I've  been  so  busy. 
And  I  thought  nobody  was  coming. 

Mrs.  Culver.  Is  your  father  nobody?  [Strok- 
ing and  patting  HUdegarde' s  dress  into  order.] 
What  have  you  been  so  busy  on  ? 

HUdegarde.  Article  for  The  Echo.  [Tranto, 
who  has  been  holding  the  MS.,  indicates  it.] 

Mrs.  Culver.     I  do  wish  you  would  let  me  see 


«8  THE  TITLE 

those    cookcrj    articles    of   yours    before    they're 
printed. 

Tranto  [putting  MS.  in  his  pocket'\.  I'm 
afraid  that's  quite  against  the  rules.  You  see,  in 
Fleet  Street 

Mrs.  Culver  [very  pleasantly'].  As  you  please. 
I  don't  pretend  to  be  intellectual.  But  I  confess 
I'm  just  a  wee  bit  disappointed  in  Hildcgarde's 
cookery  articles.  I'm  a  great  believer  in  good 
cookery.  I  put  it  next  to  the  Christian  religion — 
and  far  in  front  of  mere  cleanliness.  I've  just  been 
trying  to  read  Professor  MetchinkofTs  wonderful 
book  on  "The  Nature  of  Man."  It  only  confirms 
me  in  my  lifelong  belief  that  until  the  nature  of 
man  is  completely  altered  good  cooking  is  the  chief 
thing  that  women  ought  to  understand.  Now  1 
taught  Hildegarde  some  cookery  myself.  She  was 
not  what  I  should  call  a  brilliant  pupil,  but  she 
did  grasp  the  great  eternal  principles.  And  yet  I 
find  her  writing  [mth  charm  and  benevolence]  — 
stuff  like  her  last  article, — "The  Everlasting 
Boiled  Potato,"  I  think  she  called  it.  Hildegarde, 
it  was  really  very  naughty  of  you  to  say  what  you 
said  in  that  article.  [Drawing  down  Hildegarde's 
head  and  kissing  her.] 

Tranto.  Now  why,  Mrs.  Culver?  I  thought  it 
was  so  clever. 

Mrs.  Cidver.  It  may  be  clever  to  advocate 
fried  potatoes  and  chip  potatoes  and  saute  po- 
tatoes as  a  change  from  the  everlasting  boiled.     I 


ACT  I  «9 

daresay  it's  what  you  call  journalism.  But  how 
can  you  fry  potatoes  without  fat? 

Tranto.     Ah !    How  ? 

Mrs.  Culver.  And  where  are  you  to  obtain  fat? 
I  can't  obtain  fat.  I  stand  in  queues  for  hours 
because  my  servants  won't — it's  the  latest  form  of 
democracy — but  /  can't  obtain  fat.  I  think  the 
nearest  fat  is  at  Stratford-on-Avon. 

Tranto.  Stand  in  queues !  Mrs.  Culver,  you 
make  me  feel  very  guilty,  plunging  in  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice  and  demanding  a  whole  dinner  in  a 
fatless  world.     I  shall  eat  nothing  but  dry  bread. 

Mrs.  Culver.  We  never  serve  bread  now  at 
lunch  or  dinner  unless  it's  specially  asked  for. 
But  if  soup,  macaroni,  eggs,  and  jelly  will  keep 
you  alive  till  breakfast 

Hildegarde.  But  there's  beefsteak,  mamma — 
I've  told  Mr.  Tranto. 

Mrs.  Culver.  Only  a  little,  and  that's  for  your 
father.  Beefsteak's  the  one  thing  that  keeps  off 
his  neuralgia,  Mr.  Tranto  [with  apologetic  per- 
suasiveness^.    I'm  sure  you'll  understand. 

Tranto.  Dear  lady,  I've  never  had  neuralgia 
in  my  life.  Macaroni,  eggs,  and  jelly  are  my 
dream.     I've  always  wanted  to  feel  like  an  invalid. 

Mrs.  Culver.  And  how  did  you  get  on  with 
your  Medical  Board  this  morning? 

Tranto.  How  marvellous  of  you  to  remember 
that  I  had  a  Medical  Board  this  morning !  I  be- 
lieve I've  found  out  your  secret,  Mrs.  Tranto — 


80  THE  TITLE 

you're  undergoing  a  course  of  Pclman  with  those 
sixty  generals  and  forty  admirals.  Well,  the 
Medical  Board  have  given  me  a  new  complaint. 
You'll  be  sorry  to  hear  that  I'm  defonned. 

Mrs.  Culver.     Not  deformed! 

Tranto.  Yes.  It  appears  I'm  flat-footed. 
[^Extending  his  leg.]  Have  I  ever  told  you  that  I 
had  a  dashing  military  career  extending  over  four 
months,  three  of  which  I  spent  in  hospital  for  a 
disease  I  hadn't  got.  Then  I  was  discharged  as 
unfit.  After  a  year  they  raked  me  in  again.  Since 
then  I've  been  boarded  five  times,  and  on  the  un- 
impeachable authority  of  various  R.A.M.C. 
Colonels  I've  been  afflicted  with  valvular  disease  of 
the  heart,  incipient  tuberculosis,  rickets,  varicose 
veins,  diabetes — practically  everything  except 
spotted  fever  and  leprosy.  And  now  flat  feet  are 
added  to  all  the  rest.  Even  the  Russian  collapse 
and  the  transfer  of  the  entire  German  army  to 
the  Western  Front  hasn't  raised  me  higher  than 

C.3. 

Mrs.  Culver.  How  annoying  for  you!  You 
might  have  risen  to  be  a  Captain  by  this  time. 

HUdegarde  [reflectively'].  No  doubt,  in  a  home 
unit.  But  if  he'd  gone  to  the  Front  he  would  still 
have  been  a  second  lieutenant. 

Mrs.  Culver.     My  dear! 

Tranto.  Whereas  in  fact  I'm  still  one  of  those 
able-bodied  young  shirkers  in  mufti  that  patriotic 


ACT  I  31 

old  gentlemen  in  clubs  are  always  writing  to  my 
uncles'  papers  about. 

Mrs.  Culver.  Please !  Please !  [^  slight  pause; 
pulling  herself  together;  clieerjvlly.']  Let  me  see, 
you  were  going  in  for  Siege  Artillery,  weren't 
you? 

Tranto.  Me!  Siege  Artillery.  My  original 
ambition  was  trench  mortars — not  so  noisy. 

Mrs.  Culver  \^simply^, .  Oh !  Then  it  must  have 
been  somebody  else  who  was  talking  to  me  about 
Siege  Artillery.  I  understand  it's  very  scientific 
— all  angles  and  degrees  and  wind-pressures  and 
things.  John  will  soon  be  eighteen  and  his  father 
and  I  want  him  to  be  feally  useful  in  the  Army. 
We  won't  want  him  to  be  thrown  away.  He  has 
brains,  and  so  we  are  thinking  of  Siege  Artillery 
for  him.  {^During  this  speech  John  has  entered^ 
vn  evening  dress. ~\ 

John.  Are  you  on  Siege  again,  mater.''  The 
mater's  keen  on  Siege  because  she's  heard  some- 
where it's  the  safest  thing  there  is. 

Mrs.  Culver.  And  if  it  does  happen  to  be  the 
safest — what  then.'' 

Tranto.  I  suppose  you're  all  for  the  Flying 
Corps  yourself,  John? 

John  {with  condescension^.  Not  specially. 
Since  one  of  the  old  boys  came  and  did  looping  the 
loop  stunts  over  the  school  the  whole  Fifth  has 
gone  mad  on  the  R.F.C.  Most  fellows  are  just 
like  sheep.    Somebody  in  the  Sixth  has  to  be  orig- 


Sft  THE  TITLE 

inal.  I  want  to  fight  us  much  as  any  chap  with 
wings  across  his  chest,  but  I've  got  my  private 
career  to  think  of,  too.  If  you  ask  me,  the  mater's 
had  a  brain-wave  for  once. 

Enter  Mr.  Culver,  hack 

[He  stands  a  moment  at  the  door,  surveying  the 
scene.  Mrs.  Culver  springs  up,  and  Tranto  also 
rises,  moving  towards  the  door.^ 

Mrs.  Culver.     Arthur,  have  you  come.? 

Culver  {^advancing  a  little'\.  Apparently. 
Hello,  Tranto,  glad  to  see  you.  I  wanted  to. 
\_Shakes  hands  with  Tranto.^ 

Mrs.  Culver.     What's  the  matter,  Arthur.'' 

Culver.     Everything. 

Mrs.  Culver  [alarmed,  but  carefully  coaxing^. 
Why  are  you  wearing  your  velvet  coat?  [To 
Tranto.]  He  always  puts  on  his  velvet  coat  in- 
stead of  dressing  when  something's  gone  wrong. 
[^To  Mr.  Culver.]   Have  you  got  neuralegia  again.'* 

Culver.     I  don't  think  so. 

Mrs.  Culver.  But  surely  you  must  know !  You 
look  terribly  pale. 

Culver.  The  effect  of  the  velvet  coat,  my  dear 
— nicely  calculated  in  advance. 

Mrs.  Culver  [darting  at  hirni,  holding  him,  by 
the  shoulders,  and  then  kissing  him  violently. 
With  an  intonation  of  affectionate  protest]. 
Darling! 

John.     Oh  !    I  say,  mater,  look  here ! 

Mrs.  Culver  [to  Culver,  still  holding  hvm].    I'm 


ACT  I  33 

very  annoyed  with  you.  It's  perfectly  absurd  the 
way  you  work.  [To  Tranto.^  Do  you  know  he 
was  at  the  office  all  day  Christmas  Day  and  all 
day  Boxing  Day  .-*  [To  Cidver.l  You  really  must 
take  a  holiday. 

Culver.     But  what  about  the  war,  darling? 

Mrs.  Culver  [loosing  hini].  Oh!  'You're  al- 
ways making  the  war  an  excuse.  I  know  what  I 
shall  do.    I  shall  just  go 

Culver.  Yes,  darling,  just  go  and  suggest  a 
short  armistice  to  the  Germans  while  you  take  me 
to  Brighton  for  a  week's  fondling. 

Mrs,  Culver.  I  shall  just  speak  to  Miss  Star- 
key.  Strange  that  the  wife,  in  order  to  influence 
the  husband,  should  have  to  appeal  to  \_disdai7ir 
fully]  the  lady-secretary !    But  so  it  is. 

Culver.  Hermione,  I  must  beg  you  not  to  inter- 
fere between  Miss  Starkey  and  me.  Interference 
will  upset  Miss  Starkey,  and  I  cannot  stand  her 
being  upset.  I  depend  on  her  absolutely.  First, 
Miss  Starkey  is  the  rock  upon  which  my  official 
existence  is  built.  She  is  a  serious  and  conscien- 
tious rock.  She  is  hard  and  expects  me  to  be  hard. 
Secondly,  Miss  Starkey  is  the  cushion  between  me 
and  the  world.  She  knows  my  tender  spots,  and 
protects  them.  Thirdly,  Miss  Starkey  is  my  rod 
— and  I  kiss  it. 

Mrs.  Culver.  Arthur!.  .  .  [Tries  to  he  agree- 
able.]   But  I  really  am  vexed. 

Culver.     Well,  I'm  only  hungry. 


34  THE  TITLE 

Enter  Parlourmaid 

Parlourvuiid.  Cook's  compliments,  madam, 
and  dinner  will  be  twenty  minutes  late.  \^Ex%t.^ 
A  shocked  silence 

Culver  [unth  an  exhausted  sigh^.  And  yet  I 
gave  that  cook  one  of  my  most  captivating  smiles 
this  morning. 

Mrs.  Culver  [settling  Mr.  Culver  into  a  chairl. 
She's  done  it  simply  because  I  told  her  to-night 
that  rationing  is  definitely  coming  in.  Her  reply 
was  that  the  kitchen  would  never  stand  it,  what- 
ever the  Government  said.  She  was  quite  upset — 
and  so  she's  gone  and  done  something  to  the  din- 
ner. 

Culver.  Surely  rather  illogical  of  her,  isn't  it.'' 
Or  have  I  missed  a  link  in  the  chain  of  reasoning? 

Mrs.  Culver.  I  shall  give  her  notice — after 
dinner. 

John  Couldn't  you  leave  it  till  after  the  holi- 
days, mother? 

Hildegarde.  And  where  shall  you  find  another 
cook,  mamma? 

Mrs.  Culver.  The  first  thing  is  to  get  rid  of 
the  present  one.     Then  we  shall  see. 

Culver.  My  dear,  you  talk  as  if  she  was  a 
prime  minister.  Still,  it  might  be  a  good  plan  to 
sack  all  the  servants  before  rationing  comes  in, 
and  engage  deaf  mutes. 

Mrs.  Culver     Deaf-mutes ! 


ACT  I  35 

Culver.  Deaf-mutes.  Then  they  would  be  wor- 
ried by  the  continual  groaning  of  rny  hunger,  and 
I  shouldn't  hear  any  complaints  about  tJieirs. 

Mrs.  Culver  [to  Hildegarde^.  My  pet,  you've 
time  to  change  now.  Do  run  and  change.  You're 
so  sombre. 

HUdegarde.     I  can't  do  it  in  twenty  minutes. 

Mrs.  Culver.  Then  put  a  bright  shawl  on — 
for  papa's  sake. 

HUdegarde.     I  haven't  got  a  bright  shawl. 

Mrs.  Culver.  Then  take  mine.  The  one  with 
the  pink  beads  on  it.  It's  in  my  wardrobe — right- 
hand  side. 

Joh7i.  That  means  it'll  be  on  the  left-hand 
side. 

[Exit   HUdegarde,   back,   with  a  look   at 
Tranto,  who  opens  the  door  for  her.^ 

Mrs.  Culver  [znnth  sweet  apprehensiveness'\. 
Now,  Arthur,  I'm  afraid  after  all  you  have  some- 
thing on  your  mind. 

Culver.  I've  got  nothing  on  my  stomach,  any- 
way. [Bracing  himself. 1  Yes,  darling,  it's  true. 
I  have  got  something  on  my  mind.  Within  the  last 
hour  I've  had  a  fearful  shock 

Mrs.  Culver.     1  knew  it ! 

Culver.  And  I  need  sustaining.  I  hadn't 
meant  to  say  anything  until  after  dinner,  but  in 
view  of  cook's  drastic  alterations  in  the  time  table 
I  may  as  well  tell  you  [looking  roumd'\  at  once. 


S6  THE  TITLE 

Mrs.  Culver.  It's  something  about  the  Gov- 
ernment again. 

Cuh^er.  The  Government  has  been  in  a  very 
serious  situation. 

Mrs.  Ctdver  \ alarmed].  You  mean  they're 
going  to  ask  you  to  resign.'' 

Culver.     I  wish  they  would ! 

Mrs.  Culver.  Arthur!  Do  please  remember 
the  country  is  at  war. 

Culver.  Is  it.'*  So  it  is.  You  see,  my  pet,  I 
remember  such  lots  of  things.  I  remember  that 
my  brainy  partner  is  counting  khaki  trousers  in 
the  Army  clothing  department.  I  remember  that 
my  other  partner  ought  to  be  in  a  lunatic  asylum 
but  isn't.  I  remember  that  my  business  is  going 
to  the  dogs  at  a  muzzle  velocity  of  about  five  thou- 
sand feet  a  second.  I  remember  that  from  mere 
snobbishness  I  work  for  the  Government  without 
a  penny  of  salary,  and  that  my  sole  reward  is  to 
be  insulted  and  libelled  by  high-brow  novelists  who 
write  for  the  press.  Therefore,  you  ought  not  to 
be  startled  if  I  secretly  yearn  to  resign.  However, 
I  shall  not  be  asked  to  resign.  I  said  that  the 
Government  had  been  in  a  very  serious  situation. 
It  was.     But  it  will  soon  recover. 

Mrs.  Culver.     How  soon.'' 

Culver.     On  New  Year's  Day. 

John.     Then  what's  the  fearful  shock,  dad.? 

Mrs.  Culver.  Yes.  Have  you  heard  anything 
special.'' 


ACT  I  37 

Cvlver.  No.  But  I've  seen  something  special. 
I  saw  it  less  than  an  hour  ago.  It  was  shown  to 
me  without  the  slightest  warning,  and  I  admit  it 
shook  me.  You  can  perceive  for  yourselves  that 
it  shook  me. 

Mrs.  Culver.     But  what? 

Cvlver.  The  New  Year's  Honours  List — or 
rather  a  few  choice  selections  from  the  more  sensa- 
tional parts  of  it. 

Enter  HUdegarde 

Mrs.  Cvlver.  Arthur,  what  do  you  mean?  [To 
HUdegarde,  in  despair.']  My  chick,  your  father 
grows  more  and  more  puzzling  every  day!  How 
well  that  shawls  suits  you !  You  look  quite  a  dif- 
ferent girl.  But  you've —  [Arranges  the  shawl 
on  HUdegarde.]  I  really  don't  know  what  your 
father  has  got  on  his  mind !     I  really  don't ! 

John  [impatient  of  this  feminine  manifesta- 
tion] .  Oh,  dad,  go  on.  Go  on !  I  want  to  get  to 
the  bottom  of  this  titles  business.  I'm  hanged  if 
I  can  understand  it.  What  s,trikes  me  as  an  un- 
prejudiced observer  is  that  titles  are  supposed  to 
be  such  a  terrific  honour,  and  yet  the  people  who 
deal  them  out  scarcely  ever  keep  any  for  them- 
selves. Look  at  Mr.  Gladstone,  for  instance.  He 
must  have  made  about  forty  earls  and  seven  thou- 
sand baronets  in  his  time.  Now  if  I  was  a  Prime 
Minister  and  I  believed  in  titles — which  I  jolly 


88  THE  TITLE 

well  don't — I  should  make  myself  a  duke  right  off; 
and  I  should  have  several  marquises  and  viscounts 
round  me  in  the  Cabinet  like  a  sort  of  bodyguard, 
and  my  private  secretaries  would  have  to  be 
knights.  Thcrc'd  be  some  logic  in  that  arrange- 
ment, anyhow. 

Culver.  In  view  of  your  political  career,  John, 
will  you  mind  if  I  give  you  a  brief  lesson  on  ele- 
mentary politics — though  you  are  on  your  holi- 
days .'' 

John  l_easili/'\.    I'm  game. 

Culver.  What  is  the  first  duty  of  modern  Gov- 
ernments? 

John.     To  govern. 

Culver.  My  innocent  boy.  I  thought  better 
of  you.  I  know  that  you  look  on  the  venerable 
Mr.  Tranto  as  a  back  number  and  I  suspect  that 
Mr.  Tranto  in  liis  turn  regards  me  as  preliistoric ; 
and  yet  you  are  so  behind  the  times  as  to  imagine 
that  the  first  duty  of  modern  Governments  is  to 
govern  !  My  dear  Rip  van  Winkle,  wake  up.  The 
first  duty  of  a  Government  is  to  live.  It  has  no 
right  to  be  a  Government  at  all  unless  it  is  con- 
vinced that  if  it  fell  the  country  would  go  to  ever- 
lasting smash.  Hence  its  first  duty  is  to  survive. 
In  order  to  survive  it  must  do  three  things — pla- 
cate certain  interests,  influence  votes,  and  obtain 
secret  funds.  All  these  three  things  can  be  accom- 
plished by  the  ingenious  institution  of  Honours. 
Only  the  simple-minded  believe  that  honours  are 


ACT  I  39 

given  to  honour.  Honours  are  given  to  save  the 
life  of  the  Government.  Hence  the  Honours  List. 
Examine  the  Honours  List  and  you  can  instantly 
teU  how  the  Government  feels  in  its  inside.  When 
the  Honours  List  is  full  of  rascals,  millionaires, 
and — er — chumps,  you  may  be  quite  sure  that  the 
Government  is  dangerously  ill. 

Tranto.  But  that  amounts  to  what  we've  been 
saying  in  The  Echo  to-day. 

Culver.     Yes,  I've  read  The  Echo. 

John.  I  thought  you  never  had  a  free  moment 
at  the  office — always  rushed  to  death — at  least 
that's  the  mater's  theory. 

Culver.  I've  read  The  Echo,  and  my  one  sur- 
prise is  that  you're  here  to-night,  Tranto. 

Trcmto.     Why.? 

Culver.  I  quite  thought  you'd  have  been 
shoved  into  the  Tower  under  the  Defence  of  the 
Realm  Act.  Or  Sampson  Straight,  anyway. 
[HUdegarde  starts.']  Your  contributor  has  com- 
mitted the  unpardonable  sin  of  hitting  the  nail  on 
the  head.  He  might  almost  have  seen  an  advance 
copy  of  the  Honours  List. 

Tranto.  He  hadn't.  Nor  had  I.  Who's  in 
it.? 

Culver.  You  might  ask  who  isn't  in  it.  [Tak- 
ing a  paper  from  his  pocket.]  Well,  Gentletie's 
in  it.     He  gets  a  knighthood. 

Tranto.     Never  heard  of  him.     Who  is  he? 

Hildegarde.     Oh,    yes,    you've   heard    of   him. 


40  THE  TITLE 

[John  glances  at  her  sexvrelt/.l  He's  M.P.  for 
some  earthly  paradise  or  other  in  the  South  Rid- 
ing. 

Tranto.     Oh ! 

Culver.  Perliaps  I  might  read  you  something 
written  by  my  private  secretary — he's  one  of  these 
literary  wags.  You  see  there's  been  a  demand 
that  the  Government  should  state  clearly,  in  every 
case  of  an  Honour,  exactly  what  services  the  Hon- 
our is  given  for.  This  [taking  paper  from  his 
pocket']  is  supposed  to  be  the  stuff  sent  round  to 
the  press  by  the  Press  Bureau.  [Reads.]  "Mr. 
Gentletie  has  gradually  made  a  solid  reputation 
for  himself  as  the  dullest  man  in  the  House  of 
Commons.  Whenever  he  rises  to  his  feet  the  House 
empties  as  if  by  magic.  In  cases  of  inconvenience, 
when  the  Government  wishes  abruptly  to  close  a 
debate  by  counting  out  the  House,  it  has  in- 
variably put  up  Mr.  Gentletie  to  speak.  The  de- 
vice has  never  been  known  to  fail.  Nobody  can 
doubt  that  Mr.  Gcntlctie's  patriotic  devotion  to 
the  Allied  cause  well  merits  the  knighthood  which 
is  now  bestowed  on  him." 

John  [astounded].     Stay  me  with  flagons! 

Tranto.     So  that's  that!    And  who  else.? 

Culver.     Another  of  your  esteemed  uncles. 

Tranto.  Well,  that's  not  very  startling,  see- 
ing that  my  uncle's  chief  daily  organ  is  really  a 
department  of  the  Government. 

John.     What  I  say  is 


ACT  I  41 

Hildegarde  {^simultaneously  xvith  John]. 
Wouldn't  it  be  more  correct —  [continuing  alone] 
wouldn't  it  be  more  correct  to  say  that  the  Gov- 
ernment is  really  a  department  of  your  uncle's 
chief  daily  organ  ? 

John.  Hilda,  old  girl,  I  wish  you  wouldn't 
interrupt.     Cookery's  your  line. 

Hildegarde.  Sorry,  Johnnie.  I  see  I  was  in 
danger  of  becoming  unsexed. 

Culver  \_to  John],  Yes.'*  You  were  about  to 
say? 

John.     Oh,  nothing. 

Culver  [to  Tranto].  Shall  I  read  the  passage 
on  your  uncle  ? 

Tranto.     Don't  trouble.     Who's  the  next.'' 

Culver.  The  next  is — Ullivant,  munitions 
manufacturer.  Let  me  see  [reads].  "By  the 
simple  means  of  saying  that  the  cost  price  of 
shells  was  18*.  9c?.  each,  whereas  it  was  in  fact 
only  19*.  9d.,  Mr.  Joshua  Ullivant  has  made  a  for- 
tune of  two  millions  pound  during  the  war.  He 
has  given  a  hundred  thousand  to  the  Prince  of 
Wales'  Fund,  a  hundred  thousand  to  the  Red 
Cross,  and  a  hundred  thousand  to  the  party  funds. 
Total  net  profit  on  the  war,  one  million  seven  hun- 
dred thousand  pounds,  not  counting  the  peerage 
which  is  now  bestowed  upon  him,  and  which  it 
must  be  admitted  is  a  just  reward  for  his  remark- 
able business  acumen." 


42  THE  TITLE 

Tranto.  Very  ugreeable  fellow  Ullivant  is, 
ncvertht'lcss. 

Culver.  Oh,  he  is.  They're  most  of  them  too 
damned  agreeable  for  an3'thing.  Another  promi- 
nent name  is  Orlando  Bush. 

Tranto.     Ah! 

Mrs.  Culver.  I've  met  his  wife.  She  dances 
beautifully  at  charity  matinees. 

Cidver.  No  doubt.  But  apparently  that's  not 
the  reason. 

Tranto.  I  know  Orlando.  I've  just  bought 
the  serial  rights  of  his  book. 

Culver.     Have  you  paid  him.'' 

Tranto.     No. 

Culver.  How  wise  of  you !  [^Read8.'\  "Mr. 
Orlando  Bush  has  written  a  historical  sketch,  with 
many  circumstantial  details,  of  the  political  ori- 
gins of  the  present  Government.  For  his  forebear- 
ance  in  kindly  consenting  to  withhold  publication 
until  the  end  of  the  war  Mr.  Bush  receives  a  well- 
earned 

Tranto.     What.? 

Culver.     Knightwood. 

Tranto.     Cheap  !     But  what  a  sell  for  me ! 

Culver.  Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  last 
name  with  which  I  will  trouble  you  is  that  of  Mr. 
James  Brill. 

Tranto.     Not  Jimmy  Brill ! 

Culver.     Jimmy  Brill. 

Tranto.     But  he's  a 


ACT  I  43 

Culver.  Stop,  my  dear  Tranto.  No  crude 
phrases,  please.  [^Reads.'\  "Mr.  James  Brill,  to 
use  the  language  of  metaphor,  possessed  a  pistol, 
which  pistol  he  held  point  blank  at  the  head  of 
the  Government.  The  Government  has  thought  it 
wise  to  purchase  Mr.  James  Brill's  pistol " 

Tranto.     But  he's  a 

Culver  [raising  a  hand] .  He  is  merely  the  man 
with  the  pistol,  and  in  exchange  for  the  pistol  he 
gets  a  baronetcy. 

Tranto.     A  baronetcy ! 

Culver.  His  title  and  pistol  will  go  rattling 
down  the  ages,  my  dear  Tranto,  from  generation 
to  generation.  For  the  moment  the  fellow's  name 
stinks,  but  only  for  the  moment.  In  the  nostrils 
of  his  grandson  [third  baronet],  it  will  have  a 
most  sweet  odour. 

Mrs.  Culver.  But  all  this  is  perfectly  shock- 
ing. 

Culver.  Now  I  hope  you  comprehend  my  emo- 
tion, darhng. 

Mrs.  Culver.  But  surely  there  are  some  nice 
names  on  the  List. 

Culver.  Of  course.  There  have  to  be  some 
nice  names,  for  the  sake  of  the  psychological  ef- 
fect on  the  public  mind  on  New  Year's  Day.  The 
public  looks  for  a  good  name  or  for  a  name  it  can 
understand.  It  skims  down  the  List  till  it  sees  one. 
Then  it  says :  "Ah !  That's  not  so  bad !"  Then 
it  skims  down  further  till  it  sees  another  one,  and 


44  THE  TITLE 

it  says  again  :  "Ali !  That's  not  so  bad  !"  And 
so  on.  So  that  with  about  five  or  six  decent  names 
you  can  produce  tlie  illusion  that  after  all  the 
List  is  really  rather  good. 

HUdcgurde.  The  strange  thing  to  me  is  that 
decent  peoj)le  condescend  to  receive  titles  at  all. 

Mrs.  Culver.  Bravo,  Ilildegarde!  Yes,  if  it's 
so  bad  as  you  make  out,  Arthur,  why  do  decent 
people  take  Honours.'' 

Cvlver.  I'll  tell  you.  Decent  people  have 
wives,  and  their  wives  lead  them  by  the  nose. 
That's  why  decent  people  take  honours. 

Mrs.  Culver.     Well,  I  think  it's  monstrous! 

Cidver.  So  it  is.  I've  been  a  Conservative  all 
my  life;  I  am  a  Conservative.  I  swear  I  am.  And 
yet  now  when  I  look  back,  I'm  amazed  at  the  things 
I  used  to  do.  Why,  once  I  actually  voted  against 
a  candidate  who  stood  for  the  reform  of  the  House 
of  Lords.  Seems  incredible.  This  war  is  changing 
my  ideas.  {^Suddenly,  after  a  slight  pause. ^  I'm 
dashed  if  I  don't  join  the  Labour  party  and  ask 
Ramsay  Macdonald  to  lunch ! 

Enter  parlourmaid,  hack 

Parlourmaid.  You  are  wanted  on  the  tele- 
phone, madam. 

Mrs.  Culver.  Oh,  Arthur!  [Pats  him  on  the 
shoulder  as  she  goes  out.^^ 

[Eocit  Mrs.  Culver  and  parlourmaid,  back.^ 


ACT  I  45 

Culver.  Hildegarde,  go  and  see  if  you  can 
hurry  up  dinner. 

Hildegarde.     No  one  could. 

Culver.  Never  mind,  go  and  see.  [^Eaoit  Hilde- 
garde, hack.^  John,  just  take  these  keys,  and  get 
some  cigars  out  of  the  cabinet,  you  know,  Par- 
tagas. 

John.     Oh!    Is  it  a  Partaga  night.'' 

[^Exit,  back.^ 

Culver  [watching  the  door  close^.  Tranto,  we 
are  conspirators. 

Tranto.     You  and  I. f* 

Culver.  Yes.  But  we  must  have  no  secrets. 
Who  wrote  that  article  in  The  Echo?  Who  is 
Sampson  Straight^ 

Tranto  [temporising,  lightly] .  You  remind  me 
of  the  man  with  the  pistol. 

Culver.     Is  it  Hildegarde.? 

Tranto.     How  did  you  guess.'' 

Culver.  Well,  first  I  knew  my  daughter 
couldn't  be  the  piffling  lunatic  who  does  your  war 
cookery  articles.  Second,  I  asked  myself:  What 
reason  has  she  for  pretending  to  be  that  piffling 
lunatic.''  Third,  I  have  an  exceedingly  high  opin- 
ion of  my  daughter's  brains.  Fourth,  she  gave  a 
funny  start  just  now  when  I  mentioned  the  idea 
of  Sampson  Straight  going  to  the  Tower. 

Tranto.     Perhaps  I  ought  to  explain 

Culver.  No,  you  oughtn't.  There's  no  time.  I 
simply  wanted  a  bit  of  information.     I've  got  it. 


46  THE  TITLE 

Now  I  have  a  bit  of  information  for  you.  I've 
been  offered  a  place  in  this  beautiful  Honours 
List.  Baronetcy !  Me !  I  am  put  on  the  same 
high  plane  as  Mr.  James  Brill  the  unspeakable. 
The  formal  offer  hasn't  actually  arrived — it's 
late ;  I  expect  the  letter'll  be  here  in  the  morning — 
but  I  know  for  a  fact  I'm  in  the  List  for  a  bar- 
onetcy. 

Tranto.     Well,  I  congratulate  you. 

Culver.     You'd  better  not. 

Tranto.  You  deserve  more  than  a  baronetcy. 
Your  department  has  been  a  striking  success — 
one  of  the  very  few  in  the  whole  length  of  White- 
hall. 

Culver.  I  know  my  department  has  been  a  suc- 
cess. But  that's  not  why  I'm  offered  a  baronetcy. 
Good  heavens,  I  haven't  even  spoken  to  any  mem- 
ber of  the  War  Cabinet  yet.  I've  been  trj'ing  to 
for  about  a  year,  but  in  spite  of  powerful  in- 
fluences to  help  me  I've  never  been  able  to  bring 
off  a  meeting  with  the  mandarins.  No !  I'm  of- 
fered a  baronetcy  because  I'm  respectable;  I'm 
decent ;  and  at  the  last  moment  they  thought  the 
List  looked  a  bit  too  thick — so  they  pushed  me  in. 
One  of  their  brilliant  afterthoughts !  .  .  .  No 
damned  merit  about  the  thing,  I  can  tell  you! 

Tranto.     Do  you  mean  you  intend  to  refuse.'' 

Culver.  Do  you  mean  you  ever  imagined  that 
I  should  accept.''  Me,  in  the  same  galley  with 
Brill — who   daren't  go  into  his   own    clubs — and 


ACT  I  47 

Ullivant,  and  a  few  more  pretty  nearly  as  bad! 
Of  course  I  shall  refuse.  Nothing  on  earth  would 
induce  me  to  accept.  Nothing!  [More  calirdy.^ 
Mind  3'ou,  I  don't  blame  the  Government;  prob- 
ably the  Government  can't  help  itself.  Therefore 
the  Government  must  be  helped,  and  sometimes  the 
best  way  to  help  a  fellow  creature  is  to  bring  him 
to  his  senses  by  catching  him  one  across  the  jaw. 

Tranto.  Why  are  you  making  a  secret  of  it.^* 
The  offer  is  surely  bound  to  come  out. 

Culver.  Of  course.  I'm  only  making  a  secret 
of  it  for  the  moment,  while  I  prepare  the  domestic 
ground  for  my  refusal. 

Tranto.     You  wish  me  to  understand 

Culver.  You  know  what  women  are!  \^With 
caution.^     I  speak  of  the  sex  in  general. 

Tranto.     I  see. 

Culver.     That's  all  right. 

Tranto.  Well,  if  I  mayn't  congratulate  you  on 
the  title,  let  me  congratulate  you  on  your  marvel- 
lous skill  in  this  delicate  operation  of  preparing 
the  domestic  ground  for  your  refusal  of  the  title. 
Your  success  is  complete,  absolute. 

Culver  [sardonic^.     Complete?    Absolute? 

Tranto.  You  have — er — jockeyed  Mrs. — er — 
the  sex  into  committing  itself  quite  definitely 
against  titles.  Hence  I  look  on  your  position  as 
impregnable. 

Culver.  Good  heavens,  Tranto !  How  old  are 
you? 


48  THE  TITLE 

Tranto.     Twenty-five. 

Culver.  A  quarter  of  a  century — and  you 
haven't  learnt  that  no  position  is  iinprcgnahle 
against — er — the  sex !  You  never  know  where  the 
offensive  will  come,  nor  when,  nor  how.  The  of- 
fensive is  bound  to  be  a  surprise.  You  aren't  mar- 
ried. When  3'ou  arc  you'll  soon  find  out  that 
being  a  husband  is  a  whole-time  job.  That's  why 
so  many  husbands  fail.  They  can't  give  their  en- 
tire attention  to  it.  Tranto,  my  position  must 
be  still  further  strengthened — during  dinner.  It 
can't  be  strengthened  too  much.  I've  brought  you 
into  the  conspiracy  because  you're  on  the  spot  and 
I  want  you  to  play  up. 

Tranto.     Certainly,  sir. 

Culver.  The  official  letter  might  come  by 
to-night's  post.  If  it  does,  a  considerable  amount 
of  histrionic  skill  will  be  needed. 

Tranto.     Trust  me  for  that. 

Culver.  Oh !  I  do !  Indeed,  I  fancy  after  all 
I'm  fairly  safe.     There's  only  one  danger. 

Tranto     Yes  ? 

Culver.  My — I  mean  the  sex,  must  hear  of  the 
offered  title  from  me  first.  If  the  news  came  to 
her  indirectly  she'd 

Enter  Mrs.  Culver  rapidly,  hack 

Mrs.  Culver  [^rushing  to  hivfi].  Darling!  Dear- 
est !    What  a  tease  you  are !    You  needn't  pretend 


ACT  I  49 

any  longer.  Lady  Prockter  has  just  whispered 
to  me  over  the  telephone  that  you're  to  have  a 
baronetcy.  Of  course  she'd  be  bound  to  know. 
She  said  I  might  tell  you.  I  never  dreamed  of  a 
title.  I'm  so  glad.  Oh!  But  you  are  a  tease! 
\_Kisses  him  enthusiastic oUt/.^ 


l^Curtain.^^ 


ACT  II 

The  next  day,  after  dinner.     Culver  and  parlour- 
maid. 

Ctdver  [handi7ig  parlourmaid  a  letter^.  That's 
for  the  post.     Is  Miss  Starkcy  here? 

Parlourmaid.     Yes,  sir.     She  is  waiting. 

Culver.  Ask  her  to  be  good  enough  to  keep  on 
waiting.     She  may  come  in  when  I  ring  twice. 

Parlourmaid.     Yes,  sir. 

Enter  Mrs.  Culver,  back 

Mrs.  Culver  [to  parlourmaid,  stopping  her  as 
she  goes  out,  dramatically'].  Give  me  that  letter. 
yShe  snatches  the  letter  from  the  parlourmaid.] 
You  can  go.     [Culver  rises.] 

[Exit  parlourmaid.] 

Mrs.  Culver.  I  am  determined  to  make  a  stand 
this  time. 

Culver  [soothingly].     So  I  see,  darhng. 

Mrs.  Culver.  I  have  given  way  to  you  all  my 
life.  But  I  won't  give  way  now.  This  letter  shall 
not  go. 

Culver.     As  you  like,  darling. 

SO 


ACT  II  51 

Mrs,  Cvlver.  No.  {^She  tears  the  envelope 
open,  without  having  looked  at  it,  and  throws  the 
letter  into  the  fire.  In  doing  so  she  lets  fall  a 
cheque.^ 

Culver  [^rising  and  picking  up  the  cheque^.  I'll 
keep  the  cheque  as  a  memento. 

Mrs.  Culver.     Cheque?     What  cheque? 

Culver.  Darling,  once  in  the  old,  happy  days 
— I  think  it  was  last  week — you  and  I  were  walk- 
ing down  Bond  Street,  almost  hand  in  hand — but 
not  quite,  and  you  saw  a  brooch  in  a  shop-window. 
You  simply  had  to  have  that  brooch.  I  offered 
it  to  you  for  a  Christmas  present.  You  are  wear- 
ing it  now  and  very  well  it  suits  you.  This  [wr 
dicating  the  chequ£^  was  to  pay  the  bill. 

Mrs.  Culver.     Arthur ! 

Culver.  Moral:  Look  before  you  burn.  Miss 
Starkey  will  now  have  to  write  a  fresh  letter. 

Mrs,  Culver.  Arthur!  You  must  forgive  me. 
I'm  in  a  horrid  state  of  nerves,  and  you  said  you 
were  positively  going  to  write  to  Lord  Woking 
to-night  to  refuse  the  title. 

Culver.     I  did  say  so. 

Mrs.  Culver  \hopefully'\.  But  you  haven't 
written  ? 

Cvlver.     I  haven't. 

Mrs.  Culver.  You  don't  know  how  relieved  I 
am! 

Culver  {^sittvng  down,  drawing  her  to  him,  and 
setting  her  on  his  knee'] .   Infant !   Dove  !   Cherub ! 


62  THE  TITLE 

Angel!  .  .  .  Devil!  [^Caressing  7w?r.]  Are  we 
friends? 

Mrs.  Cuhwr.  It  kills  me  to  quarrel  with  you. 
iThey  kiss.'] 

Cvlver.     Darling,  we  are  absurd. 

Mrs.  Culver.     I  don't  care. 

Culver.  Supposing  that  any  one  came  in  and 
caught  us ! 

Mrs.  Culver.     Well,  we're  married. 

Culver.  But  it's  so  long  since.  Hildegarde's 
twenty-one  I     John  seventeen ! 

Mrs.  Culver.     It  seems  to  me  like  yesterday. 

Culver.     Yes,  you're  incurably  a  girl. 

Mrs.  Culver.     I'm  not. 

Culver.  You  are.  And  I'm  a  boy.  I  say  we 
are  absurd.  We're  continually  absurd.  We  were 
absurd  all  last  evening  when  we  pretended  before 
the  others,  with  the  most  disastrous  results,  that 
nothing  was  the  matter.  We  were  still  more  ab- 
surd when  we  went  to  our  twin  beds  and  argued 
savagely  with  each  other  from  bed  to  bed  until 
four  o'clock  this  morning.  Do  you  know  that  I 
had  exactly  one  hour  and  fifty-five  minutes  sleep.'* 
[^Yawns.]  Do  you  know  that  owing  to  extreme 
exhaustion  my  behaviour  at  my  office  to-day  has 
practically  lost  the  war.f*  But  the  most  absurd 
thing  of  all  was  you  trying  to  do  the  Roman  ma- 
tron business  at  dinner  to-night.  Mind  you,  I 
adore  you  for  being  absurd,  but 

Mrs.    Culver    [very   endearingly,    putting   her 


ACT  II  53 

hand  on  his  mouth].  Dearest,  you  needn't  con- 
tinue. I  know  you're  wiser  and  stronger  than  me 
in  every  way.  But  I  love  that.  Most  women 
wouldn't;  but  I  do.  [Kisses  him.]  Oh!  I'm  so 
glad  you've  at  last  seen  the  force  of  my  arguments 
about  the  title. 

Culver  {^gently  warning].  Now,  now!  You're 
behaving  like  a  journalist. 

Mrs.  Culver.     Like  a  journalist.? 

Culver.  Journalists  say  a  thing  that  they 
know  isn't  true,  in  the  hope  that  if  they  keep  on 
saying  it  long  enough  it  will  be  true. 

Mrs.  Culver.  But  you  do  see  the  force  of  my 
arguments ! 

Culver.  Quite.  But  I  also  see  the  force  of 
mine,  and  as  an  impartial  judge  I'm  bound  to  say 
that  yours  aren't  in  it  with  mine. 

Mrs.  Culver.  Then  you've  refused  the  title 
after  all? 

Culver  [vngratiatvngly].  No.  I  told  you  I 
hadn't.  But  I'm  going  to.  I  was  just  thinking 
over  the  terms  of  the  fatal  letter  to  Lord  Woking 
when  you  came  in.  Starkey  is  now  waiting  for  me 
to  dictate  it.  You  see  it  positively  must  be  posted 
to-night. 

Mrs.  Culver  Ispringing  from  his  Jcnee].  Ar- 
thur, you're  playing  with  me ! 

Culver.  No  doubt.  Like  a  mouse  plays  with 
a  cat. 


5^  THE  TITLE 

Mrs.     Culver.     Surely     it     has     occurred 


to 


you 

Culver  [firmly  but  very  pleasantly].  Stop! 
You  had  till  four  o'clock  this  morning  to  deliver 
all  your  arguments.  You  aren't  going  to  begin 
again.  I  understand  you've  stayed  in  bed  all  day. 
Quite  right !  But  if  you  stayed  in  bed  merely  to 
think  of  fresh  arguments  while  I've  been  slaving 
away  at  the  office  for  my  country,  I  say  you're 
taking  an  unfair  advantage  of  me  and  I  won't 
have  it. 

Mrs.  Culver  [^with  dignity'].  No.  I  haven't 
any  fresh  arguments,  and  if  I  had  I  shouldn't  say 
what  they  were. 

Culver.     Oh!    Why.? 

Mrs.  Culver.  Because  I  can  see  it's  useless  to 
argue  with  a  man  like  you. 

Culver.  Now  that's  what  I  call  better  news 
from  the-  front. 

Mrs.  Culver.  I  was  only  going  to  say  this. 
Surely  it,  has  occurred  to  you  that  on  patriotic 
grounds  alone  you  oughtn't  to  refuse  the  title. 
I  quite  agree  that  Honours  have  been  degraded. 
Quite !  The  thing  surely  is  to  try  and  make  them 
respectable  again.  And  how  are  they  ever  to  be 
respectable  if  respectable  men  refuse  them? 

Culver.  This  looks  to  me  suspiciously  like  an 
argument. 

Mrs.  Culver.  Not  at  all.  It's  simply  a  ques- 
tion. 


ACT  II  55 

Cvlver.  Well,  the  answer  is,  I  don't  want  hon- 
ours to  be  respectable  any  more.  Proverb :  When 
fish  has  gone  bad  ten  thousand  decent  men  can't 
take  away  the  stink. 

Mrs.  Culver.  Now  you're  insulting  your  coun- 
try. I  know  you  often  pretend  your  country's 
the  slackest  place  on  earth,  but  it's  only  pretence. 
You  don't  really  think  so.  The  truth  is  that  in- 
side you  you're  positively  conceited  about  your 
country.  You  think  it's  the  greatest  country  that 
ever  was.  And  so  it  is.  And  yet  when  your  coun- 
try offers  you  this  honour  you  talk  about  bad  fish. 
I  say  it's  an  insult  to  Great  Britain. 

Culver.  Great  Britain  hasn't  offered  me  any 
title.  The  fact  is  that  there  are  a  couple  of 
shrewd  fellows  up  a  devil  of  a  tree  in  Whitehall, 
and  they're  waving  a  title  at  me  in  the  hope  that 
I  shall  come  and  stand  under  the  tree  so  that  they 
can  get  down  by  putting  their  dirty  boots  on  my 
shoulders.     Well,  I'm  not  going  to  be  a  ladder. 

Mrs.  Culver.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  try  to  be 
funny. 

Culver.  I'm  not  trying  to  be  funny.  I  am 
being  funny. 

Mrs.  Cvlver.     You  might  be  serious  for  once. 

Culver.  I  am  serious.  Beneath  this  amusing 
and  delightful  exterior,  there  is  hidden  the  most 
serious,  determined,  resolute,  relentless,  inexora- 
ble, immovable  man  that  ever  breathed.  And  let 
me  tell  you  something  else,  my  girl — something  I 


56  THE  TITLE 

haven't  mentioned  before  because  of  my  nice  feel- 
ings. What  has  this  title  affair  got  to  do  with 
you?  What  the  dickens  has  it  got  to  do  with 
you?  The  title  isn't  offered  as  a  reward  for  yo^ir 
work ;  it's  offered  as  a  reward  for  my  work.  You 
aren't  the  Controller  of  Accounts.  /  happen  to  be 
the  Controller  of  Accounts.  I  have  decided  to 
refuse  the  title,  and  I  shall  refuse  it.  Nothing  will 
Induce  Tfie  to  accept  it.  Do  I  make  myself  clear, 
or  \^s'miling  affectiojiately^  am  I  lost  in  a  mist  of 
words? 

Mrs.  Culver  [suddenly  furious^.  You  are  a 
brute.  You  always  were.  You  never  think  of 
anybody  but  yourself.  My  life  has  been  one  long 
sacrifice,  and  you  know  it  perfectly  weU.  Per- 
fectly well !  You  talk  about  your  work.  What 
about  my  work  ?  Why  !  You'd  be  utterly  useless 
without  me.  You  can't  even  look  after  your  own 
collars.  Could  you  go  down  to  your  ridiculous 
office  without  a  collar?  I've  done  everything  for 
you,  everything!  And  now!  [^Weeping.l  I  can't 
even  be  called  "my  lady."  I  did  so  want  to  be 
called  "my  lady."  I  only  wanted  to  hear  the  par- 
lourmaid call  me  "my  lady."  It  seems  a  simple 
enough  thing 

Culver  [persuasively  and  softly,  trying  to  seize 
her.l    You  divine  little  snob ! 

Mrs.  Culver  [in  a  supreme,  blazing  outbreak, 
escaping  him\.  Let  me  alone!  I  told  you  at  the 
start  I  should  never  give  way.     And  I  never  will. 


ACT  II  67 

Never !  If  you  send  that  letter  of  refusal,  do  you 
know  what  I  shall  do  ?  I  shall  go  and  see  the  War 
Cabinet  myself.  I  shall  tell  them  you  don't  mean 
it.  I'll  make  the  most  horrible  scandal.  .  .  . 
When  I  think  of  the  Duke  of  WelHngton 

Culver  [surprised  and  alarmed\.  The  Duke  of 
Wellington  ? 

Mrs.  Culver  \_dramng  herself  up  at  the  door 
L].  The  Duke  of  Wellington  didn't  refuse  a 
title!  Hildegarde  shall  sleep  in  our  room,  and 
you  can  have  hers !  [Exit  violently,  L.] 

Culver  [intimidated,  as  she  goes~\.  Look  here, 
hurricane!     [He  rushes  out  after  her  J] 

Enter  Hildegarde  and  Tranto,  back 

Hildegarde  [seeing  the  room  empty].  Well,  I 
thought  I  heard  them. 

Tranto  [catching  noise  of  high  words  from  the 
boudoirl .    I  fancy  I  do  hear  them. 

Hildegarde.     Perhaps  we'd  better  go. 

Tranto.  But  I  want  to  speak  to  you — just 
for  a  moment. 

Hildegarde  [moving  uneasily'].     What  about? 

Tranto.  I  don't  know.  Anything.  It  doesn't 
matter  what.  ...  I  don't  hear  them  now. 

Hildegarde  [listening  and  hearing  nothing;  re- 
assured]. I  should  have  thought  you  wouldn't 
have  wanted  to  come  here  any  more  for  a  long 
time. 


58  THE  TITLi: 

Tranto.     Why? 

Hildcgarde.  After  the  terrible  experiences  of 
last  night,  during  dinner  and  after  dinner. 

Tranto.     The  general  constraint? 

Hildcgarde.     The  general  constraint. 

Tranto.     The  awkwardness? 

Hildegarde.     The  awkwardness. 

Tranto.  The  frightful  silences  and  the  forced 
conversations? 

Hildegarde  [^nods].    Why  did  you  come? 

Tranto.     Well 

Hildegarde.  I  suppose  you're  still  confined  to 
this  house. 

Tranto  [m  a  new  confidential  tone^.  I  wish 
you'd  treat  me  as  your  father  does. 

Hildegarde.     But  of  course  I  will 

Tranto.  That's  fine.  He  treats  me  as  an  inti- 
mate friend. 

Hildegarde.  But  you  must  treat  me  as  you 
treat  papa. 

Tranto  [slightly/  dashed].  I'll  try.  I  might 
tell  you  that  I  had  two  very  straight  talks  witli 
your  father  last  night. 

Hildegarde.     Two  ? 

Tranto.  Yes,  one  before  dinner,  and  the  other 
just  before  I  left — when  you'd  gone  to  bed.  He 
began  them — both  of  them. 

Hildegarde.  Oh !  So  that  you  may  be  said  to 
know  the  whole  situation? 


ACT  II  59 

Tranto.  Yes.  Up  to  the  last  thing  last  night, 
that  is. 

Hildegarde.  Since  then  it's  developed  on  nor- 
mal lines.     What  do  you  think  of  it? 

Tranto.  I  adore  your  mother,  but  I  think  your 
father's  quite  right. 

Hildegarde.  Well,  naturally!  I  take  that  for 
granted.  I  was  expecting  something  rather  more 
original. 

Tranto.  You  shall  have  it.  I  think  that  you 
and  I  are  very  largely  responsible  for  the  situa- 
tion. I  think  our  joint  responsibility  binds  us 
inextricably  together. 

Hildegarde.     Mr.  Tranto! 

Tranto.  Certainly.  There's  no  doubt  in  my 
mind  that  your  father  was  enormously  influenced 
by  Sampson  Straight's  article  on  the  Honours 
scandal.  In  fact  he  told  me  so.  And  seeing  that 
you  wrote  it  and  I  published  it 

Hildegarde  {^alarmed^ .  You  didn't  tell  him  I'm 
Sampson  Straight.'' 

Tranto.  Can  you  imagine  me  doing  such  a 
thing  ? 

Hildegarde.  I  hope  not.  Shall  I  tell  you  what 
/  think  of  the  situation? 

Tranto.     I  wish  you  would. 

Hildegarde.  I  think  such  situations  would 
never  arise  if  parents  weren't  so  painfully  unro- 
mantic.  I'm  not  speaking  particularly  of  papa 
and    mamma.      I    mean    all    parents.      But    take 


60  THE  TITLE 

mamma.  She's  absolutely  matter-of-fact.  And 
papa's  nearly  as  bad.  Of  course  I  know  they're 
always  calling  each  other  by  pet  names ;  but  that's 
mere  camouflage  for  their  matter-of-factness. 
Whereas  if  they  both  had  in  them  a  little  of  the 
real  romance  of  life — everything  would  be  differ- 
ent. At  the  same  time  I  needn't  say  that  in  this 
affair  that  we're  now  in  the  middle  of — there's  no 
question  of  ratiocination. 

Tranto.     Of  what? 

Hildegarde.  Ratiocination  Reasoning.  On 
either  side. 

Tranto.     Oh,  no ! 

Hildegarde.     It's  simply  a  question  of  mutual 

attitude,  isn't  it.''     Now  if  only But  there! 

What's  the  use.''  Parents  are  like  that,  poor 
dears!  They  have  forgotten!  [With  emphasis.^ 
They  have  forgotten — what  makes  life  worth  liv- 
ing. 

Tranto.  You  mean,  for  instance,  your  mother 
never  sits  on  your  father's  knee. 

Hildegarde  [bravely,  after  hesitation^.  Yes! 
Crudely — that's  what  I  do  mean. 

Tranto.  Miss  Hildegarde,  you  are  the  most 
marvellous  girl  I  ever  met.  You  are,  really !  You 
seem  to  combine  all  qualities.  It's  amazing  to  me. 
I'm  more  and  more  astounded.  Every  time  I  come 
here  there's  a  fresh  revelation.  Now  you  mention 
romance.  I'm  glad  you  mentioned  it  first.  But  I 
saw  it  first.    I  saw  it  in  your  eyes  the  first  time  I 


ACT  II  61 

ever  met  you.  Yes !  Miss  Hilda,  do  you  see  it 
in  mine?  Look.  Look  closely.  \^  Appro  aching 
her.^  Because  it's  there.  I  must  tell  you.  I  can't 
wait  any  longer.  [Feeling  for  her  hand,  vainly.^ 
Hildegarde  [drazmng  back^.  Mr.  Tranto,  is 
this  the  way  you  treat  father.'' 

Enter  Mr.  Culver,  back 

Culver  [quickl'if].  Hilda,  go  to  your  mother. 
She's  upstairs. 

Hildegarde.     What  am  I  to  do? 

Cvlver.  I  don't  know.  [With  meaning.~\ 
Think  what  the  sagacious  Sampson  Straight 
would  do  and  do  that. 

[Hildegarde  gives  a  sharp  look  first  at 
Culver  and  then  at  Tranto,  and  exit, 
hack.~\ 

Culver  [turning  to  Tranto~\.  My  dear  fellow, 
the  war  is  practically  over. 

Tranto.  Good  heavens !  There  was  nothing 
on  the  tape  when  I  left  the  Club. 

Culver.  Oh !  I  don't  mean  your  war.  I  mean 
the  twenty-two  years'  war. 

Tranto.     The  twenty-two  years'  war? 

Culver.  My  married  life.  Over!  Finished! 
Napoo ! 

Tranto.     Do  you  know  what  you're  saying? 

Culver.  Look  here,  Tranto,  You  and  I  don't 
belong  to  the  same  generation.     In  fact  if  I'd 


62  THE  TITLE 

started  early  enough  I  might  have  been  jour 
father.  But  we  got  so  damned  intimate  last  night 
and  I'm  in  such  a  damned  hole  and  you're  so 
damned  wise,  that  I  feel  I  must  talk  to  you.  Not 
that  it'll  be  any  use. 

Tranto.     But  what's  the  matter? 

Culver.  The  matter  is — keeping  a  woman  in 
the  house. 

Tranto.     Mr.  Culver!     You  don't  mean 

Culver.  I  mean  my  wife — of  course.  I've  just 
had  the  most  ghastly  rumpus  with  my  wife.  It 
was  divided  into  two  acts.  The  first  act  took  place 
here,  the  second  in  the  boudoir  [yndicating  bou- 
doir^. The  second  act  was  the  shortest  but  the 
worst. 

Tranto.     But  what  was  it  all  about? 

Culver.  Now  for  heaven's  sake  don't  ask  silly 
questions.  You  know  perfectly  well  what  it  was 
about.  It  was  about  that  baronetcy.  I  have  de- 
cided to  refuse  the  baronetcy,  and  my  wife  has  re- 
fused to  let  me  refuse  it. 

Tranto.     But  what  are  her  arguments? 

Culver.  I've  implored  you  once  not  to  ask  silly 
questions.  "What  are  her  arguments"  indeed ! 
She  hasn't  got  any  arguments.  You  know  that. 
You're  too  wise  not  to  know  it.  She  merely  wants 
the  title,  that's  all. 

Tranto.     And  how  did  the  second  act  end? 

Culver.     I  don't  quite  remember. 

Tranto.     Let  me  suggest  that  you  sit  down. 


ACT  II  6S 

[Culver  sits.]  Thanks.  Now  I've  always  gath- 
ered from  my  personal  observation  that  you,  if  I 
may  say  so,  are  the  top  dog  here  when  it  comes 
to  the  point, — the  crowned  head,  as  it  were. 

Culver.  Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a 
crown.  At  least  it  did  last  night,  and  I  shall  be 
greatly  surprised  if  it  doesn't  to-night. 

Tranto.  Naturally.  A  crown  isn't  a  night- 
cap. But  you  are  the  top  dog.  In  the  last  resort, 
what  you  say  goes.  That  is  so,  isn't  it.^  I  only 
want  to  be  clear. 

Culver.     Yes,  I  think  that's  pretty  right. 

Tranto.  Well,  you  have  decided  on  public 
grounds,  and  as  a  question  of  principle,  to  refuse 
the  title.    You  intend  to  refuse  it. 

Culver     I — I  do. 

Tranto.  Nobody  can  stop  you  from  refus- 
ing it. 

Culver.     Nobody. 

Tranto.  Mrs.  Culver  can't  stop  you  from  re- 
fusing it.'' 

Culver.     Certainly  not.     It  concerns  me  alone. 

Tranto.  Well,  then,  where  is  the  difficulty.?  A 
rumpus — I  think  you  said.  What  of  that.?  My 
dear  Mr.  Culver,  beUeve  me,  I  have  seen  far  more 
of  marriage  than  you  have.  You're  only  a  mar- 
ried man.  I'm  a  bachelor,  and  I've  assisted  at 
scores  of  married  lives.  A  rumpus  is  nothing.  It 
passes — and  leaves  the  victor  more  firmly  estab- 
lished than  ever  before. 


64  THE  TITLE 

Culver  [rising^.  Don't  talk  to  me  of  rumpuses. 
I  know  all  about  rumpuses.  This  one  is  an  arch- 
rumpus.  This  one  is  like  no  otlier  rumpus  that 
ever  was.  It's  something  new  in  even  my  vast  ex- 
perience. I  shall  win.  I  have  won.  But  at  what 
cost.''  [With  effect.^  The  cost  may  be  that  I 
shall  never  kiss  the  enemy  again.  The  whole  do- 
mestic future  is  in  grave  jeopardy. 

Tranto.      Seriously.'' 

Culver.      Seriously. 

Tranto.     Then  you  mustn't  win. 

Culver.  But  what  about  my  public  duty.'' 
What  about  my  principles?  I  can't  sacrifice  my 
principles. 

Tranto.     Why  not.'' 

Culver.     I  never  have. 

Tranto.     How  old  are  you? 

Culver.     Forty-four. 

Tranto.  And  you've  never  sacrificed  a  prin- 
ciple? 

Culver     Never. 

Tranto.  Then  it's  high  time  you  began.  And 
you'd  better  begin,  before  it's  too  late.  Besides, 
there  are  no  principles  in  married  life. 

Culver.  Tranto,  you  are  remarkable.  How  did 
you  find  that  out? 

Tranto.     I've  often  noticed. 

Culver.  It's  a  profound  truth.  It  throws  a 
new  light  on  the  entire  situation. 

Tranto.     It  does. 


ACT  II  65 

Culver.  Then  you  deliberately  advise  me  to 
give  way  about  the  title? 

Tranto.     I  do. 

Culver.  Strange !  [^Casually.^  I  had  thought 
of  doing  so,  but  I  never  dreamt  you'd  agree,  and 
I'd  positively  determined  to  act  on  your  advice. 
You  know,  you're  taking  an  immense  responsi- 
bility. 

Tranto.  I  can  bear  that.  What  I  couldn't 
bear  is  any  kind  of  real  trouble  in  this  house. 

Culver.     Why  ?    What's  it  got  to  do  with  you  ? 

Tranto.  Nothing!  Nothing!  Only  my  ab- 
stract interest  in  the  institution  of  marriage. 

Culver  [ringmg  the  hell  twice~\.  Ah,  well,  after 
all,  I'm  not  utterly  beaten  yet.  I've  quite  half  an 
hour  before  post  goes,  and  I  shall  fight  to  the  last 
ditch. 

Tranto.     But  hasn't  Mrs.  Culver  retired.'' 

Culver.     Yes. 

Tranto.  May  I  suggest  that  it  would  be  mis- 
taken tactics  to — er — run  after  her.** 

Culver.     It  would. 

Tranto.     Well  then ! 

Culver.     She  will  return. 

Tranto.     How  do  you  know.'' 

Culver.  She  always  does.  .  .  .  No,  Tranto, 
I  may  yet  get  peace  on  my  own  terms.  You  see 
I'm  an  accountant.  No  ordinary  people,  account- 
ants!    For  one  thing  they  make  their  money  by 


66  THE  TITLE 

counting  otlicr  people's.     I've  known  accountants 
do  marvellous  stunts. 


Enter  Miss  Starhey,  hack 

Tranto.     I'll  leave  you. 

Cvlver.  You'll  find  John  somewhere  about,  I 
shan't  be  so  very  long — I  hope.  Miss  Starkey 
kindly  take  down  these  two  letters.  How  much 
time  have  we  before  post  goes. 

\^Exit  Tranto,  hac1c.'\ 

Miss  Starkey.     Forty  minutes. 

Culver.     Excellent. 

Miss  Starkey  [^indicating  some  papers  which,  she 
has  brought^.  These  things  ought  to  be  attended 
to  to-night. 

Culver.     Possibly.     But  they  won't  be. 

Miss  Starkey.  The  Rosenberg  matter  is  very 
urgent.     He  leaves  for  Glasgow  to-morrow. 

Culver.  I  wish  he'd  leave  for  Berlin.  I  won't 
touch  it  to-night.  Please  take  down  these  two 
letters. 

Miss  Starkey.  Then  it  will  be  necessary  for 
you  to  be  at  the  office  at  9.30  in  the  morning. 

Culver.  I  decline  to  be  at  the  office  at  9.30  in 
the  morning. 

Miss  Starkey.  But  I've  an  appointment  for 
you.  I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  do  anything  to- 
night. 

Culver  [resigned^.   Very  well!   Very  well!   Tell 


ACT  II  67 

them  to  call  me,  and  see  cook  about  breakfast. 
\_Beginning  to  dictate.^  "My  dear  Lord  Wo- 
king." 

Miss  Starkey  [sittmg].    Excuse  me,  is  this  let- 
ter about  the  title.'* 

Culver.     Yes. 

Miss  Starkey.  Then  it  ought  to  be  an  auto- 
graph letter.     That's  the  etiquette. 

Culver.     How  do  you  know  ? 

Miss  Starkey.     General  knowledge. 

Culver.  In  this  case  the  rule  will  be  broken. 
That's  flat. 

Miss  Starkey,  Then  I  must  imitate  your  hand- 
writing. 

Culver.     Can  you? 

Miss  Starkey.  You  ought  to  know,  Mr.  Culver 
— by  this  time. 

Culver.  I  don't  know  officially.  However, 
have  your  own  way.  Forget  the  whole  thing,  sig- 
nature and  all.  I  don't  care.  "My  dear  Lord 
Woking.  Extreme  pressure  of — er — government 
business  has  compelled  me  to  leave  till  last  thing 
to-night  my  reply  to  your  letter  in  which  you  are 
good  enough  to  communicate  to  me  the  offer  of  a 
baronetcy.  I  cannot  adequately  express  to  you 
my  sense  of  the  honour  in  contemplation,  but, 
comma,  for  certain  personal  reasons  with  which  I 
need  not  trouble  you,  comma,  I  feel  bound,  with 
the  greatest  respect  and  the  greatest  gratitude,  to 
ask  to  be  allowed  to  refuse.     {^Miss  Starkey  shows 


68  THE  TITLE 

emotion.^  I  am  sure  I  can  rely  on  you  to  con- 
vey my  decision  to  the  proper  quarter  with  all 
your  usual  tact.  Believe  me,  my  dear  Lord  Wo- 
king, Cordially  yours."  [To  Miss  Starkey.^ 
What  in  heaven's  name  is  the  matter  with  you? 

Miss  Starkey.  Mr.  Culver,  I  shall  have  to 
give  you  a  month's  notice. 

Culver  [staggered^.  Have — have  you  gone 
mad,  too.'' 

Miss  Starkey.  Not  that  I  am  aware  of.  But 
I  must  give  a  month's  notice — for  certain  personal 
reasons  with  which  I  need  not  trouble  you. 

Culver.  Young  woman,  you  know  that  you  are 
absolutely  indispensable  to  me.  You  know  that 
without  you  I  should  practically  cease  to  exist. 
I  am  quite  open  with  you  as  to  that — and  as  to 
everything.  You  are  acquainted  with  the  very 
depths  of  my  character  and  the  most  horrible  se- 
crets of  my  life.  I  conceal  nothing  from  you,  and 
I  demand  that  you  conceal  nothing  from  me. 
What  are  your  reasons  for  giving  me  notice  in 
this  manner.'* 

Miss  Starkey.  My  self-respect  would  not  al- 
low me  to  remain  with  a  gentleman  who  had  re- 
fused a  title.  Oh,  Mr.  Culver,  to  be  the  private 
secretary  to  a  baronet  has  been  my  life's  dream. 
And — and — I  have  just  had  the  offer  of  a  place 
where  a  peerage  is  in  prospect.  Still,  I  wouldn't 
have  taken  even  that  if  you  had  not — if  you  had 
not \_ControUi/ng   herself,    coldly.^      Kindly 


ACT  II  69 

accept  my  notice.     I  give  it  at  once  because  I 
shall  have  no  time  to  lose  for  the  peerage. 

Cidver.  Miss  Starkey,  you  drive  me  to  the  old, 
old  conclusion — all  women  are  alike. 

Miss  Starkey.  Then  my  leaving  will  cause  you 
no  inconvenience,  because  you'll  easily  get  another 
girl  exactly  like  me. 

Culver.  You  are  a  heartless  creature,  [/w  an 
ordinary  voice. ^  Did  we  finish  the  first  letter.'' 
This  is  the  second  one.  \_Dictates.'\  "My  dear 
Lord  Woking " 

Miss  Starkey.  But  you've  just  given  me  that 
one. 

Culver  [firndyl .  "My  dear  Lord  Woking."  Go 
on  the  same  as  the  first  one  down  to  "I  cannot 
adequately  express  to  you  my  sense  of  the  honour 
in  contemplation."  Full  stop.  "I  need  hardly 
say  that,  in  spite  of  my  feeling  that  I  have  done 
only  too  little  to  deserve  it,  I  accept  it  with  the 
greatest  pleasure  and  the  greatest  gratitude.  Be- 
lieve me,  etc." 

Miss  Starkey.     But 

Culver.  Don't  imagine  that  your  giving  me  no- 
tice has  affected  me  in  the  slightest  degree.  It 
has  not.  I  told  you  I  had  two  letters.  I  have  not 
yet  decided  whether  to  accept  or  refuse  the  title. 
\_Enter  Mrs.  Culver,  hack.^  Go  and  copy  both 
letters  and  bring  them  in  to  me  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  whether  I  ring  or  not.  That  will  give 
you  plenty  of  time  for  post.     Now — run !     [^Exit 


70  THE  TITLE 

Miss  StarJicy,  hack.  Culver  rises,  clears  his 
throat,  and  obviously  braces  himself  for  a  final 
effort  of  firmness.  Mrs.  Culver  calmly  rearranges 
some  flowers  in  a  vase.'\  Well,  my  dear,  I  was  ex- 
pecting you. 

Mrs.  Culver  [very  sweetly^.  Arthur,  I  was 
wrong. 

Culver  [startledl.  Good  God!  [Mrs.  Culver 
bends  down  to  calamine  the  upholstery  of  a  chair. 
Culver  gives  a  gesture  first  of  triiwiph,  and  then 
of  apprehension.^ 

Mrs.  Culver  [looking  straight  at  Aim].  I  say  I 
was  wrong. 

Culver  [lightly  but  uneasily^ .    Oh,  no !    Oh,  no ! 

Mrs.  Culver.  Of  course,  I  don't  mean  wrong  in 
my  arguments  about  the  title.  Not  for  a  moment. 
I  mean  I  was  wrong  not  to  sacrifice  my  own  point 
of  view.  I'm  only  a  woman,  and  it's  the  woman's 
place  to  submit.  So  I  do  submit.  Naturally  I 
shall  always  be  a  true  wife  to  you,  but 

Culver.  Now,  child,  don't  begin  to  talk  like 
that.  I  don't  mind  reading  novels,  but  I  won't 
have  raw  lumps  of  them  thrown  at  me. 

Mrs.  Culver  [with  a  gentle  smile^.  I  must  talk 
like  this.  I  shall  do  everything  I  can  to  make  you 
comfortable,  and  I  hope  nobody,  and  especially 
not  the  poor  children,  will  notice  any  difference 
in  our  relations. 

Culver  [advancing,  with  a  sort  of  menace'\. 
But? 


ACT  II  71 

Mrs.  Culver.  But  things  can  never  be  the 
same  again. 

Culver.  I  knew  the  confounded  phrase  was 
coming.  I  knew  it.  I've  read  it  scores  of  times. 
[Picking  up  the  vase.^  Hermione,  if  you  con- 
tinue in  that  strain,  I  will  dash  this  vase  into  a 
thousand  fragments. 

Mrs.  Culver  [quietly  taking  the  vase  from  him. 
and  putting  it  down^.  Arthur,  I  could  have  for- 
given you  everything.  What  do  I  care — really — 
about  a  title.''  [Falsely.^  I  only  care  for  your 
happiness.  But  I  can't  forgive  you  for  having 
laid  a  trap  for  me  last  night — and  in  front  of  the 
children  and  a  stranger  too. 

Culver.     Laid  a  trap  for  you? 

Mrs.  Culver.  You  knew  all  about  the  title 
when  you  first  came  in  last  night  and  you  deliber- 
ately led  me  on. 

Culver.  Oh !  That !  Ah  well !  One  does  what 
one  can.  You've  laid  many  a  trap  for  me,  my 
girl.  You're  still  about  ten  up  and  two  to  play 
in  the  trap  game. 

Mrs.  Culver.     I've  never  laid  a  trap  for  you. 

Culver.  Fibster !  Come  here.  [Mrs.  Culver 
hesitates.^  Come  hither — and  be  kissed.  [She 
approaches  submissively,  and  then,  standing  like 
a  marble  statue,  allows  herself  to  be  kissed.  Cul- 
ver assumes  the  attitude  of  the  triumphant  mag- 
nanimous male.l     There !    That's  all  right. 

Mrs.   Culver    [having  moved  away;   still  very 


72  THE  TITLE 

sweetly  and  coldly^.  C'lin  I  do  anything  else  for 
you  before  I  go  to  bed? 

Culver  {^ignoring  the  question;  grandly  and  tol- 
erantly^. Do  jou  .su])pose,  my  marble  statue — 
that  after  all  I've  said  at  the  Club  about  the  ras- 
cality of  this  Honours  business,  I  could  ever 
have  appeared  there  as  a  New  Year  Baronet? 
The  thing's  unthinkable.  Why,  I  should  have  had 
to  resign  and  join  another  Club! 

Mrs.  Culver  [^calmly  and  severely^.  So  that's 
it,  is  it?  I  might  have  known  what  was  really  at 
the  bottom  of  it  all.  Your  Club  again!  You 
have  to  choose  between  your  wife  and  your  Club, 
and  of  course  it's  your  wife  that  must  suffer. 
Naturally  I 

Culver.  Go  on !  You'll  be  saying  next  that 
I've  committed  bigamy  with  my  Club. 

Mrs.  Culver  [^Tvith  youthful  vivacity^.  I'm 
an  old  woman 

Culver  [flatteringly^.  Yes,  look  at  you!  Hag! 
When  I  fell  in  love  with  you  your  hair  was 
still  down.  The  marvel  to  me  is  that  I  ever  let 
you  put  it  up. 

Mrs.  Culver.  I'm  only  an  old  woman  now.  You 
have  had  the  best  part  of  my  life.  You  might  have 
given  me  great  pleasure  with  this  title.  But  no! 
Your  Club  comes  first.  And  what  a  child  you 
are !  As  if  there's  one  single  member  of  your 
Club  who  wouldn't  envy  you  your  baronetcy ! 
However,  I've  nothing  more  to  say.     [Mormg  to- 


ACT  II  73 

wards  the  door,  hach.l  Oh  yes,  I  have.  [Casual- 
ly.l  I've  decided  to  go  away  to-morrow  and  stay 
with  grandma  for  a  long  holiday.  She  needs  me, 
and  if  I'm  not  to  break  down  entirely  I  must  have 
a  change.  I've  told  Hildegarde  our — arrange- 
ments. The  poor  girl's  terribly  upset.  Please 
don't  disturb  me  in  the  morning.  I  shall  take  the 
noon  train.     Goodnight. 

Cidver.     Hermione ! 

Mrs.  Culver  [returnmg  a  little  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  door,  submissively^ .     Yes,  Arthur. 

Culver.  If  you  keep  on  playing  the  martyr 
much  longer  there  will  be  bloodshed  and  you'll 
know  what  martyrdom  is. 

Mrs.  Culver  [in  a  slightly  relenting  tone'\ .  Ar- 
thur, you  were  always  conscientious.  Your  con- 
science is  working. 

Culver.     I  have  no  conscience.     Never  had. 

Mrs.  Culver  [persuasively  and  with  much 
charm^.  Yes  you  have,  and  it's  urging  you  to 
give  way  to  your  sensible  little  wife.  You  know 
you're  only  bluffing. 

Culver.     Indeed  I'm  not. 

Mrs.  Culver.  Yes,  you  are.  Mr.  Tranto  ad- 
vised you  to  give  way,  and  you  think  such  a  lot 
of  his  opinion. 

Culver.  Who  told  you  Tranto  advised  me  to 
give  way? 

Mrs.  Culver.     He  did. 

Culver.     Damn  him! 


74  THE  TITLE 

Mnt.  Culver  [sootJtinyli/].     Yes,  yes. 

Guilder.     No,  no ! 

Mrs.  Culzrr.  And  your  dear  indispensable 
Miss  Starkcy  thinks  the  same.  [She  tries  to  kiss 
him.^ 

Culver.  No,  no !  [^Mrs.  Cidver  succeeds  i/ii 
hissing  him.^ 

Enter  Miss  Starkey.    Tlie  other  two  spring  apart. 
A  short  pause. 

Culver.     Which  is  the  refusal? 

Miss  Starkey.     Tlus  one. 

Culver.  Put  it  in  the  fire.  {^Miss  Starkey  obeys. 
Both  the  women  show  satisfaction  in  their  differ- 
ent ways.^  Give  me  the  acceptance.  \^He  takes 
the  letter  of  acceptance  and  reads  it.] 

Mrs.  Culver  [while  he  is  reading  the  letter^. 
Miss  Starkey,  you  look  very  pale.  Have  you  had 
any  dinner? 

Miss  Starkey.     Not  yet,  madam. 

Mrs.  Culver.  You  poor  dear!  [Slue  strokes 
Miss  Starkey.  They  both  look  at  the  tyrannical 
male."\      I'll  order  something  for  you  at  once. 

Miss  Starkey.  I  shall  have  to  go  to  the  post 
first. 

Culver  [glancing  up'].  I'll  go  to  the  post  my- 
self. I  must  have  air,  air!  Where's  the  envelope? 
\_Exit  Miss  Starkey  quickly,  back.^ 


ACT  II  75 

Mrs.  Culver  gently  takes  the  letter  from  her  hus- 
band and  reads  it.    Culver  drops  into  a  chair. 

Mrs.  Culver  {^putting  down  the  letter'].  Dar- 
ling ! 

Culver.     I  thought  I  was  a  brute? 

Mrs.  Culver  {^caressing  and  kissing  him].  I  do 
so  love  my  brute,  and  I  am  so  happy.  Darling! 
But  you  are  a  silly  old  darling,  wasting  all  this 
time. 

Culver.     Wasting  all  what  time? 

Mrs.  Culver.  Why,  the  moment  I  came  in 
again  I  could  see  you'd  decided  to  give  way  !  \^With 
a  gesture  of  delight.]  I  must  run  and  tell  the 
children.  [Exit  L.] 

Enter  Miss  Starkey,  hack 

Miss  Starkey.     Here's  the  envelope. 

Culver  [taking  it].  Tell  them  to  get  me  my 
hat  and  overcoat. 

Miss  Starkey.  Yes,  Sir  Arthur.  [Culver 
starts.]  [Exit  Miss  Starkey,  hack.] 

Culver  [as  he  put  the  letter  vn  the  envelope;  with 
an  air  of  discovery].  I  suppose  I  do  like  being 
caUed  "Sir  Arthur." 

Enter  Hildegarde  and  John,  both  disgusted,  back 

John  [to  Hildegarde,  as  they  come  in].  I  told 
you  last  night  he  couldn't  control  even  the  mater. 
However,  I'll  be  even  with  her  yet. 


7C  THE  TITLE 

Cuh'er.     Wliat  do  you  mean,  boy? 

John.  I  mean  I'll  be  even  with  the  mater  yet. 
You'll  see. 

HUdcgarde.  Papa,  you've  behaved  basely. 
Basely '  What  an  example  to  us !  I  intend  to 
leave  this  house  and  live  alone. 

Culver.  You  ought  to  marry  IMr.  Sampson 
Straight.     [Hildegardc  starts  and  is  silent.^ 

John.  Fancy  me  having  to  go  back  to  school 
the  son  of  a  rotten  baronet,  and  with  the  fright- 
ful doom  of  being  a  rotten  baronet  myself.  What 
price  the  anti-hereditary-principle  candidate.'' 
Dad,  I  hope  you  won't  die  just  yet — it  would  ruin 
my  political  career.     Stay  me  with  flagons ! 

Cvlver.     Me  too! 


[Curtain.^ 


ACT  III 

The  next  day,  before  luncht    Hildegarde  and  John 
are  together, 

John  {nervously  impatienf].  I  wish  she'd 
come. 

Hildegarde.  She'll  be  here  in  a  moment.  She's 
fussing  round  dad. 

John.     Is  he  really  ill? 

Hildegarde.  Well,  of  course.  It  came  on  in 
the  night,  after  he'd  had  time  to  think  things 
over.     Why  ? 

John.  I  read  in  some  paper  about  the  Prime 
Minister  having  only  a  political  chill.  So  I 
thought  perhaps  the  pater — under  the  circs 

Hildegarde  {shaking  her  head].  You  can't 
have  political  dyspepsia.  Can't  fake  the  symp- 
toms.   Who  is  to  begin  this  affair,  you  or  TCi&? 

John.  Depends.  What  line  are  you  going  on 
with  her? 

Hildegarde.  I'm  going  to  treat  her  exactly 
as  she  treats  me.  I've  just  thought  of  it.  Only 
I  shan't  lose  my  temper. 

John.     Sugarsticks? 

Hildegarde.     Yes. 

77 


78  THE  TITLE 

John.     You'll  never  bo  able  to  keep  it  up. 

Hildcgardc.  Oh,  yes,  I  shnll.  Somehow  I  feel 
much  more  mature  than  I  did  yesterday. 

John.  More  mature?  Stay  me  with  flagons! 
I  was  always  mature.  If  you  knew  what  rot  I 
think  school  is  ... !  Well,  anyway,  you  can  be- 
gin. 

Hildegarde.  You're  very  polite  to-day,  John- 
nie. 

John.  Don't  mention  it.  My  argument  '11  be 
the  best,  and  I  want  to  keep  it  for  the  end,  that's 
all. 

Hildegarde.  Thanks.  But  I  bet  you  we  shall 
both  fail. 

John.  Well,  if  we  do,  I've  still  got  something 
else  waiting  for  her  ladyship.  A  regular  startler, 
my  child. 

Hildegarde.     What  is  it.** 

Enter  Mrs.  Culver^  back 

John  [fa  Hildegarde,  as  Mrs.  Cvlver  enter s'\. 
Wait  and  see. 

Mrs.  Culver  {^cheerful  and  affectioTiate,  to 
John^.  So  you've  come  in.  [To  Hildegarde.^ 
You  are  back  early  to-day !  Well,  my  darlings, 
what  did  you  want  me  for? 

Hildegarde  [imitating  her  mother^s  manner^. 
Well,  mamma  darling,  we  hate  bothering  you.  We 
know    you've    got    quite    enough    worries    without 


ACT  III  79 

having  any  more.  But  it's  about  this  baronetcy 
business.  [Mrs.  Culver  starts.'}  Do  be  an  angel 
and  listen  to  us. 

Mrs.  Cvlver  [with  admirable  self-control}.  Of 
course,  my  pet.  But  you  know  the  matter  is 
quite,  quite  settled.  Your  father  and  I  settled 
it  together  last  night,  and  the  letter  of  acceptance 
is  in  the  hands  of  the  Government  by  this  time. 

John.  It  isn't,  mater.  It's  here.  \_Pulls  the 
letter  out  of  his  pocket.} 

Mrs.  Culver.     John!    What 

John.  Now,  now,  mater !  Keep  calm.  This 
is  really  your  own  doing.  Pater  wanted  to  go  to 
the  post  himself:  but  it  was  raining  a  bit,  and 
you're  always  in  such  a  fidget  about  his  getting 
his  feet  wet  you  wouldn't  let  him  go,  and  so  I 
went  instead. 

Hildegarde.  Yes,  mummy  darling,  you  must 
acknowledge  that  you  were  putting  temptation 
in  Johnnie's  way. 

John.  Soon  as  I  got  outside,  I  said  to  myself: 
"I  think  the  pater  ought  to  have  a  night  to  think 
over  this  affair.  It's  very  important.  And  he 
can  easily  send  round  an  answer  by  hand  in  the 
morning."  So  I  didn't  post  the  letter.  I  should 
have  told  you  earlier,  but  you  weren't  down  for 
breakfast  and  I  had  to  go  out  afterwards  on  ur- 
gent private  business. 

Mrs.  Culver.     But — but — [controlling  herself. 


80  THE  TITLE 

grinned  but  kind].  Your  father  will  be  terribly 
angry.     I  daren't  face  him. 

John  [only  half -sup  pressing  his  amusement  at 
the  last  remark].  Don't  let  that  worry  you.  I'll 
face  him.  He'll  be  delighted.  He'll  write  another 
letter,  and  quite  a  different  one. 

Mrs.  Culver  [getting  firmer.]  But  don't  I  tell 
you,  my  dearest  boy,  that  the  affair  is  settled, 
quite  settled  .f* 

John.  It  isn't  settled  so  long  as  I've  got  this 
letter,  anyway. 

Hildegarde.  Of  course  it  isn't  settled.  Mother 
darling,  we  simply  must  look  the  facts  in  the  face. 
Fact  one,  the  letter  is  here.  Fact  two,  the  whole 
family  is  most  frightfully  upset.     Dad's  ill 

Mrs.  Culver.     That  was  the  lobster. 

John.     It  wasn't. 

Mrs.  Culver.  Yes,  dear.  Lobster  always  up- 
sets him. 

John.     It  didn't  this  time. 

Mrs.  Culver.     How  do  you  know? 

John.  I  know  because  /  ate  all  his  lobster.  He 
shoved  it  over  to  me.  You  couldn't  see  for  the 
fruit-bowl. 

Hildegarde.  No,  mamma  sweetest.  It's  this 
baronetcy  business  that's  knocked  poor  papa 
over.  And  it's  knocked  over  Johnnie  and  me  too. 
I'm  perfectly,  perfectly  sure  you  acted  for  the 
best,  but  don't  you  think  you  persuaded  father 


ACT  III  81' 

against  his  judgment?  Not  to  speak  of  our  judg- 
ment! 

Mrs.  Culver.     I've  only  one  thought 

Hildegarde  [^caressing  and  kissing  her  mother^. 
I  know!  I  know!  Father's  happiness.  Our  hap- 
piness. Mamma,  please  don't  imagine  for  a  sin- 
gle instant  that  we  don't  realise  that.  You're  the 
most  delicious  darling  of  an  old  mater 

Mrs.  Culver  [^slightly  suspiciov^^.  Hildegarde, 
you're  quite  a  different  girl  to-day. 

Hildegarde  [^nods^.  I've  aged  in  a  single 
night.  I've  become  ever  so  serious.  This  baro- 
netcy business  has  shown  me  that  I've  got  convic- 
tions— and  deep  convictions.  I  admit  I'm  a  differ- 
ent girl  to-day.  But  then  everything's  different 
to-day.  The  whole  house  is  different.  Johnnie's 
different.  Papa's  missed  going  to  the  office  for 
the  first  time  in  over  eight  months.  [Very  sweet- 
ly.^ Surely  you  must  see,  mamma,  that  some- 
thing ought  to  be  done  and  that  you  alone  can  do 
it. 

Mrs.  Culver.     What?    What  ought  I  to  do? 

Hildegarde.  Go  upstairs  and  tell  dad  you've 
changed  your  mind  about  the  title  and  advise  him 
to  write  off  instantly  and  refuse  it.  You  know 
you  always  twist  him  round  your  little  finger. 

Mrs.  Culver  [looking  at  her  little  finger^.  I 
shouldn't  dream  of  trying  to  influence  your  fa- 
ther once  he  had  decided.     And  he  hus  decided. 

Hildegarde    [sweetly'].     Mamma,   you're   most 


82  THE  TITLE 

tremendously  clever — far  cleverer  than  any  of  us 
— but  I'm  not  sure  if  you  understand  the  attitude 
of  the  modem  girl  towards  things  that  affect  her 
convictions. 

Mrs.  Culver  [^swcetli/~\ .  Are  you  the  modem 
girl? 

H'ddcgarde.     Yes. 

Mrs,  Culver.  Well,  I'm  the  ancient  girl.  And 
I  can  tell  you  this — you're  very  like  me,  and 
we're  both  very  like  somebody  else. 

HUdegarde.     Who's  that? 

Mrs.  Culver.     Eve. 

John.  Come,  mater.  Eve  would  never  have 
learnt  typewriting.     She'd  have  gone  on  the  land. 

Mrs.  Culver.  John,  your  sister  and  I  are  not 
jesting. 

HUdegarde.  I'm  so  glad  you  admit  I'm  serious, 
mamma.  Because  I  am — very.  I  don't  want  to 
threaten 

Mrs.  Culver.     Threaten,  darling? 

HUdegarde  {firmli/,  but  quite  lightly  and  sweet- 
ly'\.  No,  darling.  Not  to  threaten.  The  mere 
idea  of  threatening  is  absurd.  But  it  would  be 
extremely  unfair  to  you  not  to  tell  you  that  un- 
less you  agree  to  father  refusing  the  title,  I  shall 
have  to  leave  the  house  and  live  by  myself.  I  real- 
ly shall.  Of  course  I  can  easily  earn  my  own  liv- 
ing. I  quite  see  that  you  have  principles.  But  I 
also   have   principles.      If   they    clash — naturally 


ACT  III  83 

it's  m}^  place  to  retire.    And  I  shall,  mamma  dear- 
est. 

Mrs.  Culver.     Is  that  final? 

Hildegarde.     Final,  mummy  darling. 

Mrs.  Culver.  Then,  my  dearest  child,  you  must 
go. 

Hildegarde  [still  sweetly].     Is  that  final? 

Mrs.  Culver  IstUl  sweetly].  Final,  my  poor 
pet. 

John  [firmly].     Now  let  me  say  a  word. 

Mrs.  Culver  [bejiignly].  And  what  have  you 
got  to  say  in  the  matter?  You've  already  been 
very  naughty  about  that  letter.  Do  try  not  to 
be  ridiculous.  Give  me  the  letter.  This  affair 
has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  you. 

John  [putting  the  letter  in  his  pocJcet].  Noth- 
ing whatever  to  do  with  me!  Mater,  you  really 
are  a  bit  too  thick.  If  it  was  a  knighthood  I 
wouldn't  care.  You  could  have  your  blooming 
knighthood.  Knighthoods  do  come  to  an  end. 
Baronetcies  go  on  for  ever.  I've  told  the  dad  and 
I'll  tell  you,  that  /  zmll  not  have  my  political 
career  ruined  by  any  baronetcy.  And  if  you  in- 
sist— may  I  respectfully  inform  you  what  I  shall 
do?  May  I  respectfully  inform  you?  May  I? 
Mrs.  Culver.     John! 

John.  I  shall  chuck  Siege  and  go  into  the  Fly- 
ing Corps.  And  that's  flat.  If  you  really  want 
to  shorten  my  life,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  stick 
to  that  bally  baronetcy. 


84 


THE  TITLE 


Mrs.  Culver.  Your  father  won't  allow  you  to 
join  the  Flying  Corps. 

John.  My  father  can't  stop  me.  I  know  the 
mess  is  expensive,  but  the  pay's  good,  and  I've 
got  £150  of  my  own.  Not  a  fortune!  Not  a 
fortune!  But  cnougli,  quite  enough.  A  short  life 
and  a  merry  one.  I  went  to  see  Captain  Ske^ves 
at  the  Automobile  this  morning.  One  of  our  old 
boys.  He's  delighted.  He  gave  me  Lanchester's 
"Aircraft  in  Warfare"  to  read.  Here  it  is.  {Viclc- 
ing  up  the  book.l  Here  it  is!  I  shall  sit  up  all 
night  to-night  reading  it.  A  short  life  and  a  merrt/ 
one. 

Mrs.  Culver.     You  don't  mean  it! 

John.     I  absolutely  do. 

Mrs.  Culver  [after  a  pau  e'\.  John,  you're 
trying  to  bully  your  mother. 

John.  Not  in  the  least,  ater.  I'm  merely 
telling  you  what  will  happen  i"  father  accepts  that 
piffling  baronetcy. 

Mrs.  Culver   ^checking  a 
Well,  my  pets,  you  make  life 
for  me.     I  live  only  for  you 
think  first  of  your  father  a 
For  myself,  I  am  perfectly  ii 
all  politics  extremely  silly, 
in  my  family,  nor  in  your  fat 
most  extraordinary  that  yr 
them  so  late  in  life.    I  ah 
thirty  people  were  imn' 


ir;  very  sweetly']. 

ast  a  little  difficult 

id  your  father.     I 

then  of  you  two. 

i^crcnt.     I  consider 

ere  never  were  any 

i's.    And  to  me  it's 

r  should  catch 

.ed  that  after 

fohn.]     You, 


ACT  III  86 

I  suppose,  were  bound  to  have  them  sooner  or 
later,  but  that  Hilda  should  go  out  of  her  way  to 
contract  them, — well,  it  passes  me.  It  passes  me. 
However,  I've  no  more  to  say.  Your  father  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  accept  the  title.  You  want 
him  to  refuse  it.  I  hate  to  influence  him  {^Hilde- 
garde  again  hides  a  cynical  smile^  but  for  your 
sakes  I'll  try  to  persuade  him  to  alter  his  decision 
and  refuse  it. 

John  [^talcing  h^r  arm].  Come  along,  then, — 
now !     I'll  go  with  jou,  to  see  fair  play. 

[He  opens  the  rioor  L  and  Mrs.  Culver  passes 
out.  Then  stop'r^kig  in  the  doorway,  to  HUde- 
garde.']  Who  di/  the  trick.'*  I  say — who  did  the 
trick.'' 

Hildegarde  \_n'>  elyj.  Pooh!  You  may  be  a 
prefect  at  school.' '  But  here  you're  only  mamma's 
wee  lamb!     [She  i    ops  on  to  the  sofa.~\ 

John  [svngvnl  triumphantly^.  Stay — me — 
with  fla — gons  !  [Exit  John  L.] 

Enter  Tranto,  ha.  ,  shown  in  by  the  parlourmaid 

Tranto.  HoW^  'ye  do,  Miss  Hilda.  I'm  in  a 
high  state  of  ne^^/I:I 

Hildegarde  [st>  kmg  hands  weahly'].  We  all 
are. 

Tranto  [ignor^'^  what  she  says'\.  I've  come 
specially  to  ' 

Hildegar  ''w  did  you  know  I  should 


86  THE  TITLE 

be  liere — nt  this  time?  I'm  supposed  to  be  at  the 
Food  Ministry  till  one  o'clock. 

Tranto.     I  called  for  you  at  the  Ministry. 

HiUlcgarde  [leaning  forward^.  That's  quite 
against  the  rules.  The  rules  are  made  for  the 
moral  protection  of  the  women-clerks. 

Tranto.     They  told  me  you'd  left  early. 

Hildcgarde.     Why  did  you  call? 

Tranto.     Shall  I  be  frank.'' 

Hildegarde.     Are  you  ever.'' 

Tranto.     I  wanted  to  walk  home  with  you. 

Hildegarde.  Are  you  getting  frightened  about 
that  next  article  of  mine.'' 

Tranto.     No.     I've  lost  all  interest  in  articles. 

Hildegarde.     Even  in  my  articles? 

Tranto.  Even  in  yours.  I'm  only  interested 
in  the  writer  of  your  articles.  [Agitated.^  Miss 
Hilda,  the  hour  is  about  to  strike. 

Hildegarde.     What  hour? 

Tranto.  Listen,  please.  Let  me  explain.  The 
situation  is  this.  Instinct  has  got  hold  of  me. 
When  I  woke  up  this  morning  something  inside 
me  said:  "You  must  call  at  the  Ministry  for  that 
young  woman  and  walk  home  with  her."  This 
idea  seemed  marvellously  beautiful  to  me,  it 
seemed  one  of  the  most  enchanting  ideas  that  had 
ever  entered  the  heart  of  man.  I  thought  of  noth- 
ing else  all  morning.  When  I  reached  the  Min- 
istry and  you'd  gone,  I  felt  as  if  I'd  been  shot. 
Then  I  rushed  here.     If  you  hadn't  been  at  home 


ACT  III  87 

I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done.  My  fever 
has  been  growing  every  moment.  Providentially 
you  are  here.  I  give  you  fair  warning  that  I'm 
utterly  in  the  grip  of  an  instinct  which  is  ridicu- 
lously unconventional  and  which  somehow  will 
brook  no  delay.  I  repeat,  the  hour  is  about  to 
strike. 

Hildegarde  [rousmg  herself^.  Before  it  ac- 
tually strikes  I  want  to  ask  a  question. 

Tranto.     But  that's  just  what  I  want  to  do. 

Hildegarde.  Please.  One  moment  of  your 
valuable  time. 

Tranto,     The  whole  of  my  life. 

Hildegarde.  Last  night,  why  did  you  advise 
papa  to  give  way  to  mamma  and  accept  the  baro- 
netcy ? 

Tranto.     Did  I? 

Hildegarde.     It  seems  so. 

Tranto.     Well — er 

Hildegarde.  You  know  it's  quite  against  his 
principles,  and  against  mine  and  Johnnie's,  not 
to  speak  of  yours. 

Tranto.  The  fact  is,  you  yourself  had  given 
me  such  an  account  of  your  mother's  personality 
that  I  felt  sure  she'd  win  anyhow,  and — and — for 
reasons  of  my  own  I  wished  to  be  on  the  winning 
side.  No  harm  in  that,  surely.  And  as  regards 
principles,  I  have  a  theory  about  principles. 
Your  father  was  much  struck  by  it  when  I  told 
him. 


88  THE  TITLE 

Hildegarde.     Namely  ? 

Traiito.  There  arc  no  principles  in  married 
life. 

Hildegarde.  Oh  indeed !  Well,  there  may  not 
be  any  principles  in  your  married  life,  but  there 
most  positively  will  be  in  mine,  if  I  ever  have  a 
married  life.  And  let  me  tell  you  that  you  aren't 
on  the  winning  side  after  all, — you're  on  the  los- 
ing side. 

Tranto.     How.'*     Has  your 

Hildegarde.  Johnnie  and  I  have  had  a  great 
interview  with  mamma,  and  she's  yielded.  She's 
abandoned  the  baronetcy.  In  half  an  hour  from 
now  the  baronetcy  will  have  been  definitely  and 
finally  refused. 

Tranto.     Great  scott! 

Hildegarde.     You're  startled.'' 

Tranto.  No !  After  all,  I  might  have  fore- 
seen that  you'd  come  out  on  top.  The  day  before 
yesterday  your  modesty  was  making  you  say  that 
your  mother  could  eat  you.  I  on  the  contrary  in- 
sisted that  you  could  eat  your  mother.  Who  was 
right.?  I  ask:  Who  was  right.''  When  it  really 
comes  to  the  point, — well,  you  have  a  serious  talk 
with  your  mother,  and  she  gives  in ! 

Hildegarde  [gloomih/^.  No!  /  didn't  do  it.  I 
tried,  and  failed.  Then  Johnnie  tried,  and  did  it 
without  the  slightest  trouble.  A  schoolboy ! 
That's  why  I'm  so  upset. 

Tranto  ^shaking  his  head^.     You  mustn't  tell 


ACT  III  89 

me  that,  Miss  Hilda.  Of  course  it  was  you  that 
did  it. 

HUdegarde  [impatiently;  standing  up].  But  I 
do  tell  you. 

Tranto.  Sorry !  Sorry  !  Do  be  merciful !  My 
feelings  about  you  at  this  very  moment  are  so,  if 
I  may  use  the  term,  unbridled 

HUdegarde  [zdth  false  gentle  calin].  And 
that's  not  all.  I  suppose  you  haven't  by  any 
chance  told  father  that  I'm  Sampson  Straight? 

Tranto.     Certainly  not. 

HUdegarde.     You're  sure.'' 

Tranto.     Absolutely. 

Hildegarde.     Well,  I'm  sorry. 

Tranto.     Why? 

Hildegarde  [quietly  sarcastic].  Because  papa 
told  me  you  did  tell  him.  Therefore  father  is  a 
liar.  I  don't  like  being  the  daughter  of  a  liar. 
I  hate  Mars. 

Tranto.  Aren't  you  cutting  yourself  off  from 
mankind  ? 

Hildegarde  [going  straight  on].  For  the  last 
day  or  two  father  had  been  giving  me  such  queer 
little  digs  every  now  and  then  that  I  began  to 
suspect  he  knew  who  Sampson  Straight  was.  So 
I  asked  him  right  out  tliis  morning — he  was  in 
bed — and  he  had  to  acknowledge  he  did  know  and 
that  you  told  him. 

Tranto.  Well,  I  didn't  exactly  tell  him.  He 
sort  of  guessed,  and  I 


90  THE  TITLE 

Hildegarde  [calmlt/,  relentlessly'].  You  told 
him. 

Tranto.  No.  I  merely  admitted  it.  You 
think  I  ought  to  have  denied  it? 

Hildegarde.  Of  course  you  ought  to  have  de- 
nied it. 

Tranto.      But  it  was  true. 

Hildegarde.     And  if  it  was.? 

Tranto.  If  it  was  true,  how  could  I  deny  it? 
You've  just  said  you  hate  liars. 

Hildegarde  [losing  self-control].  Please  don't 
be  absurd. 

Tranto  [a  little  nettled].     I  apologise. 

Hildegarde.     What  for? 

Tranto.  For  having  put  you  in  the  wrong. 
It's  such  shocking  bad  diplomacy  for  any  man  to 
put  any  woman  in  the  wrong. 

Hildegarde  [angrily].  Man — woman!  Man — 
woman!  There  you  are!  It's  always  the  same 
with  you  males.     Sex!     Sex!     Sex! 

Tranto  [quite  conquering  Ms  annoyance;  per- 
suasively].    But  I'm  fatally  in  love  with  you. 

Hildegarde.  Well,  of  course,  there  you  have 
the  advantage  of  me. 

Tranto.     Don't  you  care  a  little 

Hildegarde  [letting  herself  go].  Why  should 
I  care?  What  have  I  done  to  make  you  imagine  I 
care?  It's  quite  true  that  I've  saved  your  news- 
paper from  an  early  grave.  It  was  suffering  from 
rickets,   spinal    curvature,   and   softening   of    the 


ACT  in  91 

brain,  and  I've  performed  a  miraculous  cure  on  it 
with  my  articles.  I'm  Sampson  Straight.  But 
that's  not  enough  for  jou.  You  can't  keep  sen- 
timent out  of  business.  No  man  ever  could.  You'd 
Hke  Sampson  Straight  to  wear  blouses  and 
breeches  for  you,  and  loll  on  sofas  for  you,  and 
generally  offer  you  the  glad  eye.  It's  an  insult. 
And  then  on  the  top  of  aU  you  go  and  give  the 
whole  show  away  to  papa,  in  spite  of  our  under- 
standing, and  if  papa  hadn't  been  the  greatest 
dear  in  the  world  you  might  have  got  me  into  the 
most  serious  difficulties. 

Tranto  [^equably,  after  a  'pause] .  I  don't  think 
I'll  ask  myself  to  stay  for  lunch. 

HUdegarde.     Good  morning. 

Tranto  [iwar  the  door].  I  suppose  I'd  better 
announce  that  he's  died  very  suddenly  under  mys- 
terious circumstances? 

HUdegarde.     Who  ? 

Tranto.     Sampson  Straight. 

HUdegarde.  And  what  about  my  new  article, 
that  you've  got  in  hand? 

Tranto.  It  can  be  a  posthumous  article,  in  a 
black  border. 

HUdegarde.  Indeed!  And  why  shouldn't 
Sampson  Straight  transfer  his  services  to  another 
paper?     There  are  several  who'd  jump  at  him. 

Tranto.     I  never  thought  of  that. 

HUdegarde.     Naturally ! 

Tranto.     He  shall  live.      \_A   pause.     Tranto 


92  THE  TITLE 

bows,  arid  exit,  back.     Hildegarde  subsides  once 
more  on  to  the  «o/a.] 

Enter  Culver,  in  his  velvet  coat,  L 

Culver  [softli/,  with  sprightliness^.  Hello, 
Sampson ! 

Hildegarde.     Dad,  please  don't  call  me  that. 

Culver.     Not  when  we're  alone?    Why? 

Hildegarde.  I — I — Dad,  I'm  In  a  fearful  state 
of  nerves  just  now.  Lost  my  temper,  and  all  sorts 
of  calamities. 

Culver.  Really  !  I'd  no  idea.  I  gathered  that 
the  interview  between  you  and  your  mother  had 
passed  quite  smoothly. 

Hildegarde.     Oh!     That! 

Culver.      What  do  you  mean— "Oh  !  That!"? 

Hildegarde  [standing;  in  a  new,  less  gloomy 
tone^.  Papa,  what  are  you  doing  out  of  bed? 
You're  very  ill. 

Culver.  Well,  I'd  managed  to  dress  before 
your  mother  and  Johnnie  came.  As  soon  as  they'd 
imparted  to  me  the  glad  tidings  that  baronetcies 
were  off  I  felt  so  well  I  decided  to  come  down  and 
thank  you  for  your  successful  efforts  on  behalf 
of  the  family  well-being.  I'm  no  longer  your 
father.     I'm  your  brother. 

Hildegarde.      It  was  Johnnie  did  it. 

Culver.     It  wasn't — /  know. 

Hildegarde     [exasperated].      I     say    it    was! 


ACT  III  93 

[Apologetically. }  So  sorry,  dad.  \_Kisses  him.^ 
Where  are  they,  those  two?     [iSifs.] 

Culver.  Mother  and  John?  Don't  know.  I 
fancy  somebodjj  called  as  I  came  down. 

Hildegarde.  Called !  Before  lunch !  Who 
was  it? 

Culver.     Haven't  the  faintest. 

Enter  John,  back 

John  [proudli/^ .  I  say,  good  people !  New 
acquaintance  of  mine.  Just  looked  in.  Met  him 
at  the  Automobile  this  morning  with  Skewes.  I 
was  sure  you'd  all  give  your  heads  to  see  the  old 
chap,  so  I  asked  him  to  lunch  on  the  chance. 
Dashed  if  he  didn't  accept !  You  see  we'd  been 
talking  a  bit  about  politics.  He's  the  most  cele- 
brated man  in  London.  I  doubt  if  there's  a  fellow 
I  admire  more  in  the  whole  world, — or  you  either. 
He's  knocked  the  mater  flat  already.  Between 
ourselves,  I  really  asked  him  because  I  thought 
he  might  influence  her  on  this  baronetcy  business. 
However,  that's  all  off  now.  What  are  you  staring 
at? 

Culver.  We're  only  bursting  with  curiosity  to 
hear  the  name  of  this  paragon  of  yours.  As  a 
general  rule  I  like  to  know  beforehand  whom  I'm 
going  to  lunch  with  in  my  own  house. 

John.     It's  Sampson  Straight. 

Hildegarde  [springing  up~\.    Sampson  Str 


94  THE  TITLE 

Cuh'er  [calmli/^.  Keep  your  nerve,  Hilda. 
Keep  your  nerve. 

John.  I  thought  I  wouldn't  say  anything  till 
he'd  actually  arrived.  He  mightn't  have  come  at 
all.  Then  what  a  fool  I  should  have  looked  if  I'd 
told  you  he  was  coming!  Tranto  himself  doesn't 
know  him.  Tranto  pooh-poohed  the  idea  of  me 
ever  meeting  him,  Tranto  did.  Well,  I've  met 
him,  and  he's  here.  I  haven't  let  on  to  him  that 
I  know  Tranto.  I'm  going  to  bring  them  to- 
gether and  watch  them  both  having  the  surprise 
of  their  lives. 

Culver.  John,  this  is  a  great  score  for  you.  I 
admit  I've  never  been  more  interested  in  meeting 
any  one.     Never! 

Enter  parlourmaid,  back 

Parlourmaid.     Miss  Starkey,  sir. 

Culver  [cheerfullt/] .  I'll  see  her  soon.  [Ptdl- 
ing  himself  up  suddenly;  in  an  alarmed,  gloomy 
tone.li     No,  no !     I  can't  possibly  see  her. 

Parlourmaid.  Miss  Starkey  says  there  are  sev- 
eral important  letters,  sir. 

Culver.     No,  no !    I'm  not  equal  to  it. 

Hildegarde  [^confidentially^.  What's  wrong, 
dad.? 

Culver  [to  Hildcgarde~\.  She'll  give  me  notice 
the  minute  she  knows  she  can't  call  me  Sir  Arthur. 
[Shudders.^     I  quail. 


ACT  in  95 

Enter  Mrs.  Culver  and  Sampson  Straight,  back. 

{The  parlourmaid  holds  the  door  for  them, 
and  then  exits.]^ 

Mrs.  Cidver.  This  is  my  husband.  Arthur, 
dear — Mr.  Sampson  Straight.  And  this  is  my  ht- 
tle  daughter,  IHilda  bows.  John  surveys  the 
scene  with  satisfaction.^ 

Culver  [recovering  his  equipoise;  shaking  hands 
heartily^.  Mr.  Straight,  delighted  to  meet  you. 
I  simply  cannot  tell  you  how  unexpected  this 
pleasure  is. 

Straight.     You're  too  kind. 

Culver  [_gaUi/^ .    I  doubt  it.    I  doubt  it. 

Straight.  I  ought  to  apologise  for  coming  in 
like  this.  But  I've  been  so  charmingly  received 
by  Mrs.  Culver 

Mrs.  Culver.  You've  been  so  charming  about 
my  boy,  Mr.  Straight. 

Straight.  I  was  so  very  greatly  impressed  by 
your  son  this  morning  at  the  Club  that  I  couldn't 
resist  the  opportunity  he  gave  me  of  visiting  his 
home.  What  I  say  is :  like  parents,  like  child.  I'm 
an  old-fashioned  man. 

Mrs.  Culver.  No  one  would  guess  that  from 
your  articles  in  The  Echo.  Of  course  they're 
frightfully  clever,  but  you  know  I  don't  quite 
agree  with  all  your  opinions. 

Straight.     Neither  do  I.     You  see — there's  al- 


96  THE  TITLE 

ways  a  difference  between  what  one  thinks  and 
wliat  one  has  to  write. 

Mrs.  Culver.  I'm  so  ghid.  [^Cvlver  starts  and 
looks  round.'\     What  is  it,  Arthur? 

Culr'er.  Nothing!  I  thought  I  heard  the  ice 
cracking.      [HiMcgarde  begins  to  smile.^ 

Straight   [look-ing  at  the  floor;  simpli/].     Ice.'' 

Mrs.  Culver.     Arthur! 

Straight.  It  was  still  thawing  when  I  came  in. 
As  I  was  saying,  I'm  an  old-fashioned  man.  And 
I'm  a  provincial — and  proud  of  it. 

Mrs.  Culver.  But,  my  dear  Mr.  Straight,  real- 
ly, if  you'll  excuse  me,  you  look  as  if  you  never 
left  the  pavements  of  Piccadilly. 

Culver.  Say  the  windows  of  the  Turf  Club, 
darling. 

Straight  [serenelyl.  No.  I  live  very,  very 
quietly  on  my  little  place,  and  when  I  feel  the 
need  of  contact  with  the  great  world  I  run  over 
for  the  afternoon  to — St.  Ives. 

Mrs.  Culver.  How  remarkable  I  Then  that  ex- 
plains how  it  is  you're  so  dcliciously  unspoilt. 

Straight.     Do  you  mean  my  face? 

Mrs.  Culver.  I  meant  you  don't  seem  at  all  to 
realise  that  you're  a  very  great  celebrity  in  Lon- 
don ;  very  great  indeed.     A  lion  of  the  first  order. 

Straight    [simpli/].     A  lion? 

Culver.     You're  expected  to  roar,  Mr.  Straight. 

Straight.     Roar? 

Mrs.  Culver.     It  may  interest  you  to  know  that 


ACT  III  97 

my  little  daughter  also  writes  articles  in  The 
Echo.  Yes,  about  war  cookery.  But  of  course 
you  wouldn't  notice  them.  [^Hildegarde  moves 
awayJ]  I'm  afraid  [apologetically^  your  mere 
presence  is  making  her  just  a  wee  bit  nervous. 

HUdegarde  [from  a  distance,  striving  to  control 
herself^.  Oh,  Mr.  Sampson  Straight.  There's 
one  question  I've  been  longing  to  ask  you.  I  al- 
ways ask  it  of  literary  lions — and  tigers. 

Straight.     Tigers  ? 

HUdegarde.  Do  you  write  best  in  the  morning 
or  do  you  burn  the  midnight  oil.'* 

Straight.     Oil.'' 

Mrs.  Cidver.  Do  sit  down,  Mr.  Straight.  [She 
goes  i/mploringly  to  HUdegarde,  who  has  lost  con- 
trol of  herself  and  is  getting  a  little  hysterical 
with  mirth.  Aside  to  Hildegarde.^  Hilda! 
[John,  puzzled  and  threatening,  also  approaches 
HUdegarde.^ 

Culver  [sitting  down  by  Straight^.  And  so, 
although  you  prefer  a  country  life,  the  lure  of 
London  bas  been  too  strong  for  you  in  the  end. 

Straight.     I  came  to  town  on  business. 

Culver.     Ah ! 

Straight.  The  fact  is,  business  of  the  utmost 
importance.  Perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  interest 
you  in  it. 

Culver.     Now  we're  getting  hotter. 

Straight.     Hotter .'' 

Culver.     Go  on,  go  on,  Mr.  Straight. 


98  THE  TITLE 

Straight.     To  tell  you  the  truth 

Culver.     Always  a  wise  thing  to  do. 

Straight.  One  of  my  reasons  for  accepting 
your  son's  kind  invitation  was  that  I  thought 
that  conceivably  you  might  be  willing  to  help  in 
a  great  patriotic  scheme  of  mine.  Naturally  you 
show  surprise. 

Culver.  Do  I?  Then  I'm  expressing  myself 
badly.  I'm  not  in  the  least  surprised.  It  is  the 
contrary  that  would  have  surprised  me. 

Straight.     We  may  possibly  discuss  it  later. 

Culver.  Later.?  Why  later?  Why  not  at 
once.?  I'm  full  of  curiosity.  I  hate  to  let  the 
grass  grow  under  my  feet. 

Straight  llooki7ig  at  the  floor.']  Grass.? 
[With  a  faint  mechanical  laugh.]  Ah  yes,  I  see. 
A  figure  of  speech.  Well,  I'm  starting  a  little  lim- 
ited liability  syndicate. 

Culver.     Precisely  what  I  thought.     Yes? 

Straight.     The  End-the-war  Syndicate. 

John  [approachiiig].  But  surely  you  aren't 
one  of  those  pacifists,  Mr.  Straight!  You've  al- 
ways preached  fighting  it  out  to  a  finish. 

Culver.     Not  a  pacifist,  boy.     A  syndicalist. 

Straight.  The  object  of  my  syndicate  is  cer- 
tainly to  fight  to  a  finish,  but  to  finish  in  about  a 
week — by  means  of  my  little  syndicate. 

Culver.  Splendid !  But  there  is  one  drawback. 
New  capital  issues  are  forbidden  under  the  De- 
fence of  the  Realm  Act. 


ACT  III  99 

Straight.  Even  when  the  object  is  to  win  the 
war? 

Culver.  My  dear  sir,  the  Treasury  would  never 
permit  such  a  thing. 

Straight.  Well,  we  needn't  have  a  limited  com- 
pany. Perhaps  after  all  it  would  be  better  to 
keep  it  quite  private. 

Culver.  Oh!  It  would.  And  what  is  the  cen- 
tral idea  of  this  charming  syndicate.'* 

Straight.  The  idea  is — ^looking  round  cau- 
tiously^— a  new  explosive. 

Culver.  Again,  precisely  what  I  thought. 
Your  own  invention? 

Straight.  No.  A  friend  of  mine.  It  truly  is 
the  most  marvellous  explosive. 

Culver.     I  suppose  it  bangs  everything. 

Straight  [simply^.  Oh,  it  does.  A  develop- 
ment of  trinitrotoluol  on  new  lines.  I  needn't  say 
that  my  interest  in  the  affair  is  purely  patriotic. 

Culver.     Of  course.     Of  course. 

Straight.  I  can  easily  get  all  the  capital  I 
need. 

Culver.      Of  course.     Of  course. 

Straight.  But  I'm  not  in  close  touch  with  the 
official  world,  and  in  a  matter  of  this  kind  official 
influence  is  absolutely  essential  to  success.  Now 
you  are  in  touch  with  the  official  world.  I  shouldn't 
ask  you  to  subscribe,  though  if  you  cared  to  do  so 
there  would  be  no  objection.  And  I  may  say  that 
the  syndicate  can't  help  making  a  tremendous  lot 


100  THE  TITLE 

of  money.  When  I  tell  you  that  the  new  ex- 
plosive is  forty-seven  times  as  powerful  as  trini- 
trotoluol itself 

Cidver.  When  you  tell  me  that,  Mr.  Straight, 
I  can  only  murmur  the  hope  that  you  haven't  got 
any  of  it  in  your  pocket. 

Straight  [simply].  Oh  no!  Please  don't  be 
alarmed.  But  you  see  the  immense  possibilities. 
You  see  how  this  explosive  would  end  the  war  prac- 
tically at  once.  And  you'll  understand  of  course 
that  although  my  articles  in  The  Echo  have  ap- 
parently caused  considerable  commotion  in  Lon- 
don, and  given  me  a  position  which  I  am  glad  to 
be  able  to  use  for  the  service  of  the  Empire,  my 
interest  in  mere  journalism  as  such  has  almost 
ceased  since  my  friend  asked  me  to  be  secretary 
and  treasurer  of  the  syndicate.  I  couldn't  refuse 
to  join  the  syndicate — could  I.'' — even  if  it  in- 
volves me  dropping  my  articles  altogether. 

Culver.  I  agree ;  you  couldn't  refuse.  .  .  . 
And  so  you're  the  secretary  and  treasurer? 

Straight.  Yes.  We  don't  want  to  have  sub- 
scribers of  less  than  £100  each.  If  you  cared  to 
look  into  the  matter — I  know  you're  very  busy, 
but  a  mere  glance 

Cidver.     Just  so — a  mere  glance. 

Enter  Tranto,  excitedly 

Hildegarde  [nearer  the  door  than  the  rest"}. 
Again? 


ACT  III  101 

Tranto  {^rather  londUy  and  not  specially  to  Hil- 
degarde].  Terrible  news!  I've  just  heard  and  I 
rushed  back  to  tell  you.  Sampson  Straight  has 
died  very  suddenly  in  Cornwall.  Bright's  disease. 
He  breathed  his  last  in  his  own  potato  patch. 
[Aside  to  Hildegarde,  in  response  to  a  gesture 
from  her.~\  I'm  awfully  sorry.  The  poor  fellow 
simply  had  to  expire. 

Mrs.  Culver  [to  Tranto^.  Now  this  just  shows 
how  the  most  absurd  rumours  do  get  abroad ! 
Here  is  Mr.  Sampson  Straight.  I'm  so  glad  you've 
come,  because  you've  always  wanted  to  meet  him 
in  the  flesh. 

Tranto  [to  Straight^.  Are  you  Sampson 
Straight.? 

Straight.     I  am,  sir. 

Tranto.  The  Sampson  Straight  who  lives  in 
Cornwall? 

Straight.     Just  so. 

Tranto.     Impossible ! 

Straight.  Pardon  me.  One  moment.  I  was 
told  there  was  a  danger  of  my  being  inconvenienced 
in  London  by  one  of  these  military  raids  for 
rounding  up  slackers,  and  as  I  happen  to  have  a 
rather  youthful  appearance,  I  took  the  precaution 
of  bringing  with  me  my  birth-certificate  and  reg- 
istration card.     [Produces  tliem.^ 

Tranto  [glancing  at  the  card^.  And  it's  really 
you  who  write  those  brilliant  articles  in  The  Echo? 


102  THE  TITLE 

Straight.  "Brilliant" — I  won't  say.  But  I  do 
write  them. 

Tranto.  Well,  this  is  the  most  remarkable  in- 
stance of  survival  after  death  that  I  ever  came 
across. 

Straight.     I  beg  your  pardon. 

Tranto.  You're  dead,  my  fine  fellow.  Your 
place  isn't  here.  You  ought  to  be  in  the  next 
world.     You're  an  impostor. 

Straight  [to  Mrs.  Culver'].  I'm  not  quite  sure 
that  I  understand.    Will  you  kindly  introduce  me.^ 

Mrs.  Culver.  I'm  so  sorry.  This  is  Mr. 
Tranto,  proprietor  and  editor  of  The  Echo — 
[apologetically,  with  an  uneasy  smile']  a  great  hu- 
mourist. 

Straight  [thunderstruck;  aside].  Well,  I'm 
damned!  [His  "whole  demeanour  changes.  Never- 
theless, while  tacitly  admitting  that  he  is  found 
out,  he  at  once  resumes  his  mild  calmness.  To  Cul- 
ver.] I've  just  remembered  an  appointment  of 
vital  importance.  I'm  afraid  our  little  talk  about 
the  syndicate  must  be  adjourned. 

Culver.  I  feared  you  might  have  to  hurry 
away.  [Straight  bows  as  a  preliminary  to  de- 
parture. John,  deeply  humiliated,  averts  his 
glance  from  everybody.] 

Tranto.     Here!    But  you  can't  go  off  like  this. 

Straight.  Why.''  Have  you  anything  against 
me? 

Tranto.     WeU 


ACT  III  103 

Straight.  I  can  afford  to  be  perfectly  open. 
It's  true  that  I've  been  in  prison;  but  for  a  quite 
respectable  crime.  Bigamy,  with  extenuating  cir- 
cumstances.    There  is  nothing  else. 

Mrs,  Culver  [greatly  upset^.     Dear,  dear! 

Straight  [fo  Tranto^.  Do  you  wish  to  detain 
me? 

Tranto.  I  simply  haven't  the  heart  to  do  it. 
{Waves  a  liandJ] 

Straight.  May  I  say  before  leaving  that  I'm 
the  only  genuine  Sampson  Straight  in  the  United 
Kingdom,  and  that  in  my  opinion  it  was  a  gross 
impertinence  on  the  part  of  your  contributor  to 
steal  my  name. 

Cvlrser.  So  it  was.  But  you  see  if  you'd  been 
named  Crooked,  as  you  ought  to  have  been,  you'd 
have  been  spared  that  annoyance. 

Hildegarde  {stopping  Straight  near  the  door 
as  he  departs  with  more  hows^.  Good-bye!  {She 
holds  out  her  hand  with  a  smile.^      Good  luck! 

Straight  {taking  her  hand^.  Madam,  I  thank 
you.  You  e\adently  appreciate  the  fact  that  when 
one  lives  solely  on  one's  wits,  little  mishaps  are 
bound  to  occur  from  time  to  time,  and  that  too 
much  importance  ought  not  to  be  attached  to 
them.  This  is  only  my  third  slip,  and  I  am  fifty- 
five.  {Exit  back.^ 

Mrs.  Culver  {to  Hildegarde,  gently  surprised^. 
Darling,  surely  you  need  not  have  been  quite  so 
effusive ! 


104  THE  TITLE 

Hildegarde.  You  see,  I  thought  I  owed  him 
something — yxcith  mcaniny  and  effect^  as  it  was 
I  who  stole  his  name. 

Mrs.  Culver  [^utterly  puzzled  for  a  moment; 
then,  when  she  understands,  rushing  to  Hildegarde 
and  embracing  Jier^.     Oh!    My  wonderful  girl! 

John  \Jeehly  and  still  humiliated^.  Stay  me 
with   flagons ! 

Hildegarde  [^to  her  mother'].  How  nice  you 
are  about  it,  mamma ! 

Mrs.  Ctdver.  But  I'm  very  proud,  my  pet.  Of 
course  I  think  you  might  have  let  me  into  the 
secret 

Culver.  None  of  us  were  let  into  the  secret, 
Hermione, — I  mean  until  comparatively  recent 
times.  It  was  a  matter  between  Hilda's  conscience 
and  her  editor. 

Mrs.  Culver.  Oh !  I'm  not  complaining.  I'm 
so  relieved  she  didn't  write  those  dreadful  cookery 
articles. 

Hildegarde.  But  do  you  mean  to  say  you 
aren't  frightfully  shocked  by  my  advanced  poli- 
tics, mamma? 

Mrs.  Culver.  My  child,  how  naive  you  are, 
after  all!  A  woman  is  never  shocked,  though  of 
course  at  times  it  may  suit  her  to  pretend  to  be. 
Only  men  are  capable  of  being  shocked.  As  for 
your  advanced  politics,  as  you  call  them,  can't 
you  see  that  it  doesn't  matter  what  you  write  so 
long  as  you  are  admired  by  the  best  people.     It 


ACT  III  105 

isn't  views  that  are  disreputable,  it's  the  per- 
sons that  hold  them. 

Culver,  I  hope  that's  why  you  so  gracefully 
gave  way  over  the  baronetcy,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  Culver  [continuing  to  HUdegarde^. 
There's  just  one  thing  I  should  venture  to  sug- 
gest, and  that  is  that  you  cease  at  once  to  be  a 
typist  and  employ  one  yourself  instead.  It's  most 
essential  that  you  should  live  up  to  your  position. 
Oh!     I'm  very  proud  of  you. 

Hildegarde.  I  don't  quite  know  what  my  posi- 
tion is.  According  to  the  latest  news  I'm  dead. 
[Challengingly  to  Tranto.^  Mr.  Tranto,  you're 
keeping  rather  quiet,  nearly  as  quiet  as  John 
\_John  changes  his  seat^,  but  don't  you  think  you 
owe  me  some  explanation?  Not  more  than  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  ago  in  this  very  room  it  was  dis- 
tinctly agreed  between  us  that  you  would  not  kill 
Sampson  Straight,  and  now  you  rush  back  in  a 
sort  of  homicidal  mania. 

Mrs.  Culver.  Oh!  I'd  no  idea  Mr.  Tranto 
had  called  already  this  morning! 

Hildegarde.  Yes.  I  told  him  all  about  every- 
thing and  we  came  to  a  definite  understanding. 

Mrs.  Culver.     Oh ! 

Tranto.  I'm  only  too  anxious  to  explain.  I 
killed  Sampson  for  the  most  urgent  of  all  possible 
dreams.  The  Government  is  thinking  of  giving 
him  a  baronetcy!! 

Culver.     Not  my  baronetcy  ? 


106  THE  TITLE 

Tranto.     Precisely. 

Mrs.  Cuh'cr.  But  this  is  the  most  terrible 
thing  I  ever  heard  of, 

Tranto.  It  is.  I  met  one  of  my  chaps  in  the 
street.  He  was  coming  here  to  see  me.  [^To  Cul- 
ver.^ Your  answer  was  expected  this  morning. 
It  didn't  arrive.  Evidently  your  notions  about 
titles  had  got  abroad,  and  the  Government  has 
decided  to  offer  a  title  to  Sampson  Straight  this 
afternoon  if  you  refuse. 

Culver.  But  how  delightfully  stupid  of  the 
Government. 

Tranto.  On  the  contrary  it  was  a  really  bril- 
liant idea.  Sampson  Straight  is  a  great  literary 
celebrity,  and  he'd  look  mighty  well  in  the  Hon- 
ours List.  Literature's  always  a  good  card  to 
play  for  Honours.  It  makes  people  think  that 
Cabinet  Ministers  are  educated. 

Hildegarde. — But  I've  spent  half  my  time  in 
attacking  the  Government ! 

Tranto.  Do  you  suppose  the  Government 
doesn't  know  that.''  In  creating  you  a  baronet 
[gazes  at  her^  it  would  gain  two  advantages, — 
it  would  prove  how  broad-minded  it  is,  and  it 
would  turn  an  enemy  into  a  friend. 

Hildegarde.  But  surely  the  silly  Government 
would  make  some  enquiries  first! 

Culver.  Hilda,  do  remember  what  your  mother 
said,   and   try   to   live   up   to   your   position.      It 


ACT  III  107 

isn't  the  Government  that  makes  enquiries.     It's 
the  Government  that  gets  things  done. 

Tranto.  You  perceive  the  extreme  urgency  of 
the  crisis.  I  had  to  act  instantly.  I  did  act.  I 
slew  the  fellow  on  the  spot,  and  his  obituary  will 
be  in  my  late  extra.  The  danger  was  awful — 
greater  even  than  I  realised  at  the  moment,  be- 
cause I  didn't  know  till  I  got  back  here  that  there 
was  a  genuine  and  highly  unscrupulous  Sampson 
Straight  floating  about. 
^  Mrs.  Culver.     Danger?     What  danger .f* 

Tranto.  Danger  of  the  Government  falling, 
dear  lady.  You  see,  it's  like  this.  Assuming  that 
the  Government  offers  a  baronetcy  to  Sampson 
Straight,  and  the  offer  becomes  public  property, 
as  it  infallibly  would,  then  there  are  three  alterna- 
tives. Either  the  Government  has  singled  out  for 
honour  a  person  who  doesn't  exist  at  all ;  or  it  has 
sought  to  turn  a  woman  [glancmg  at  Hilda^  into 
a  male  creature  and  the  forbear  of  an  endless  series 
of  future  baronets ;  or  it  is  holding  up  to  public 
admiration  an  ex-convict.  Choose  which  theory 
you  like.  In  any  case  the  exposure  would  mean 
the  immediate  ruin  of  any  Government. 

HUdegarde  [io  Tranto^.  I  always  thought 
you  wanted  the  Government  to  fall. 

Culver.  Good  heavens,  my  gifted  child !  No 
enlightened  patriotic  person  wants  the  Govern- 
ment to  fall.  All  enlightened  and  patriotic  per- 
sons want  the  Government  to  be  afraid  of  falling. 


108  THE  TITLE 

There  you  have  the  wliole  of  war  poHtics  in  a 
nutshell.  If  the  British  Government  fell  the  effect 
on  the  Allied  cause  would  be  bad  and  might  be 
extremely  bad.  But  that's  not  the  real  explana- 
tion. The  real  explanation  is  that  no  one  wants 
the  Government  to  f;ill  because  no  one  wants  to 
step  into  the  Government's  shoes.  However, 
thanks  to  Tranto's  masterly  presence  of  mind  in 
afflicting  Sampson  Straight  with  a  disease  that 
kills  like  prussic  acid,  the  Government  can  no 
longer  give  Sampson  a  title  and  the  danger  to 
the  Government  is  therefore  over. 

Tranto.  Over!  I  wish  it  was!  Supposing  the 
Government  doesn't  happen  to  see  my  late  extra 
in  time !  Supposing  the  offer  of  a  baronetcy  to 
Sampson  Straight  goes  forth !  The  mischief  will 
be  done.  Worst  of  all,  supposing  the  only  genuine 
Sampson  Straight  hears  of  it  and  accepts  it !  A 
baronetcy  given  to  a  bigamist !  No  Government 
could  possibly  survive  the  exposure. 

Mrs.  Ctdver.  Not  even  if  it's  survival  was  nec- 
essary to  the  success  of  the  Allied  cause.'' 

Ctdver  [gloomiljij,  shaking  his  head^.  My  dear, 
Tranto  is  right.  This  great  country  has  always 
insisted  first  of  all,  and  before  anything  else  what- 
ever, on  the  unsullied  purity  of  the  domestic  life 
of  its  public  men.  Let  a  baronetcy  be  given,  or 
even  offered,  to  a  bigamist — and  this  great  coun- 
try would  not  hesitate  for  one  second,  not  one 
second. 


ACT  III  109 

Tranto.  The  danger  still  exists.  And  only 
one  man  in  this  world  can  avert  it. 

Culver.     You  don't  mean  me,  Tranto? 

Tranto.  I  understand  that  you  have  neither 
accepted  nor  refused  the  offer.  You  must  accept 
it  instantly.  Instantly.  \_A  silence.  John  begins 
to  creep  towards  the  door  hack,  and  Hildegarde 
towards  the  door  L.] 

Mrs.  Culver  \_firmlz/'] .  John,  where  are  you  go- 
ing.? 

John.     Anywhere. 

Mrs.  Cvlver.  Have  you  still  got  that  letter 
to  Lord  Woking  in  which  your  father  accepts  the 
title.? 

John.     Yes. 

Mrs.  Culver.  Come  here.  Let  me  see  it.  \^She 
inspects  the  envelope  of  the  letter  and  returns  it 
to  John.']  Yes,  that's  right.  Now  listen  to  me. 
Get  a  taxi  at  once  and  drive  to  Lord  Woking's, 
and  insist  on  seeing  Lord  Woking,  and  give  him 
that  letter  with  your  own  hand.  Do  you  under- 
stand.? ^Exit  Hildegarde  L.]  The  stamp  will 
be  wasted,  but  never  mind.     Fly ! 

John.  It's  a  damned  shame.  \^Mrs.  Cvlver 
smiles  calmly.] 

Culver  \^shaking  John's  flaccid  hand].  So  it  is. 
But  let  us  remember,  my  boy,  that  you  and  I  are 
— are  doing  our  bit.  [Pu^shes  him  violently  to- 
wards the  door.]     Get  along.     [^Exit  John,  hack.] 

Tranto  [looking  round].    Where's  Hildegarde.? 


no  THE  TITLE 

Mrs.  Cuh'ir.     She  went  in  there. 

Tranto.     I  must  just  speak  to  her. 

YExit  Tranto,  L.~\ 

Mrs.  Culver  [rw/'/i  a  gesture  towards  the  door 
L],     There's  something  between  those  two. 

Culver.      I  doubt  it  [■mth  a  sigh^. 

Mrs.  Culver.  What  do  you  mean — you  doubt 
it.? 

Culver.  They're  probably  too  close  together 
for  there  to  be  anything  between  them. 

Mrs.  Cidver  \^shakes  her  head,  smiling  sceptical- 
ly/]. The  new  generation  has  no  romance,  [/w  a 
Tiew  tone.]     Arthur,  kiss  me. 

Culver.     I'm  dashed  if  I  do! 

Mrs.  Culver.  Then  I'll  kiss  you!  {^She  gives 
him  a  long  kiss.] 

The  lunch  sounds  during  the  embrace.  Startled, 

tliey  separate. 

Culver.     Food ! 

Mrs.  Culver  [^with  admirvng  enthusiasm]. 
You've  behaved  splendidly. 

Culver.  Yes,  that's  what  you  always  say  when 
you've  won  and  I — haven't.  \^She  kisses  him, 
agavn.] 

Enter  the  parlourmaid,  hack 

Parlourmaid.    Miss  Starkey  is  still  waiting,  sir. 

Culver.      Inexorable  creature!     I  won't — I  will 

not — [^suddenly  remembering  tluit  he  has  nothvng 


ACT  III  111 

to  fear  from  Miss  Starkey;  gaili/].  Yes,  I'll  see 
her.  She  must  lunch  with  us.  May  she  lunch  with 
us,  Hermione? 

Mrs.  Culver  [suhmissiveli/'].  Why,  Arthur,  of 
course!  [To  parlourmaid.]  Miss  Starkey  can 
have  Master  John's  place.  Some  lunch  must  be 
kept  warm  for  Master  John.  [As  the  parlourmaid 
is  leaving.]  One  moment — bring  up  some  cham- 
pagne, please. 

Parlourmaid.     Yes,  madam. 

[Exit  parlourmaid.] 

Culver.  Come  along,  I'm  hungry.  [Leading 
her  toward  the  door.  Then  stopping.]  I  say. 
.  .   .  Oh  well,  never  mind. 

Mrs.  Culver.     But  what.? 

Culver.     You're  a  staggering  woman,  that's  all. 
[Exit  Culver  and  Mrs.  Culver,  hack.] 

Enter  Hildegarde  and  Tra/nto,  L 

Hildegarde  [plaintively,  as  they  enter] .  I  told 
you  my  nerves  were  all  upset,  and  yet  you  ran  off 
before  I — before  I — and  now  it's  lunch  time! 

Tranto  [facing  her  suddenly].  Hilda!  I  will 
now  give  you  my  defence.     [He  kisses  lier.^ 

Enter  Culver,  hack,  in  tvme  to  interrupt  the  em- 

hrace 

Culver.  Excuse  me.  ]My  wife  sent  me  to  ask 
if  you'd  lunch,  Tranto.     I  gather  that  you  wHl. 

[Curtain.] 


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